Chapter 239: Wen Leyu: This Can

That evening, Li Ye picked up his lunch box as usual and went to the library with Wen Leyu to study.

But after finding seats and sitting down, Wen Leyu—the little translator—didn't start working right away; instead, she handed Li Ye two magazines.

"Take a look at these articles and estimate their level."

"Evaluate someone else's work? I'm probably not qualified."

Li Ye smiled humbly as he took the two magazines from Wen Leyu.

Wen Leyu frowned. "Don't always undervalue yourself. My mom said you're one of the representative writers of the new generation. Anyone who looks down on you is just an insignificant clown."

"Dong Yuejin is already a major figure now—if you were as eager as he is to attend every event, who'd dare challenge you?"

Li Ye smiled but said nothing more to Wen Leyu.

He'd never wanted to deeply engage with the cultural circle. The reputation of Seven-Inch Blade came entirely from readers—what did others have to do with it?

Li Ye knew clearly: as long as he kept writing works that satisfied readers, even if half the Writers' Association disliked Seven-Inch Blade, it wouldn't stop him from becoming a god against the tide.

Wen Leyu opened her lunch box and placed it between herself and Li Ye, picking at her food to supplement her vitamins while waiting for his evaluation.

Li Ye opened the two magazines and immediately understood why Wen Leyu cared so much about these two articles.

Because the two pieces—"The Death of Li Xiaomao" and "The Boatman's Three Days and Three Nights"—were written by Chai Kenan and Wan Zhiyue.

They didn't use pen names; they used their real names.

Sure enough, Wen Leyu wasn't that magnanimous. As soon as she heard someone was targeting Li Ye, she moved immediately.

Or rather, because of "Fires of the Deserting Soldier," she couldn't afford to be magnanimous toward such people.

Li Ye spent twenty minutes reading both short stories.

They were standard "Scar Literature"—attacking certain specific things, filled with suppressed grievance and venting.

When Wen Leyu saw Li Ye close the magazines, she quickly swallowed the orange slice in her mouth and asked: "What do you think?"

Li Ye smiled and asked back: "You've already read them—what do you think?"

Wen Leyu shook her head. "You know my background, so I can't be sure my judgment is fair."

Li Ye was surprised, then said: "Xiao Yu, I have to admire your rationality and calmness."

The term "Scar Literature" actually borrowed its name from a short story called "Scar" by a writer surnamed Lu, used broadly to describe literature depicting that special earlier period.

Sent-down youth and young people like Wen Guohua and Wen Leyu easily found identification and resonance in such works.

That's why Wen Leyu refrained from evaluating such pieces—to avoid letting her own psychological biases distort her judgment.

"These two are decent enough," Li Ye assessed. "They fit the literary trends of recent years. But if you must judge their quality, they're only average."

Wen Leyu asked seriously: "Why only average?"

Li Ye said: "Because these texts contain only angry evil, no redemptive good."

Wen Leyu: "."

Let me give you two examples.

Seeing Wen Leyu didn't understand, Li Ye continued: "You've seen 'The White-Haired Girl,' right?"

Wen Leyu nodded silently—how could she not know "The White-Haired Girl"?

Li Ye went on: "Xi'er's prototype was real. Didn't her early life suffer hardships similar to what's described in these two stories?"

"But isn't Dachun in 'The White-Haired Girl' a kind, good person? Didn't Xi'er ultimately find redemption and reach the beauty of the world?"

If Scar Literature is a concept, shouldn't "The White-Haired Girl" at least be related? Wasn't the suffering of Xi'er's era also a scar?

Yet in certain years of the 1980s, it became a target of fierce criticism.

That's ironic.

"But in these two stories—'The Death of Li Xiaomao' and 'The Boatman's Three Days and Three Nights'—there isn't a single good person."

Li Ye continued: "Good and evil are interdependent. Even in the deepest hell, good must exist. Even in boundless darkness, hidden light must be present."

"For example, when you were in Qingshui County, didn't someone quietly repair your house? Didn't the neighbor's aunt, seeing you sick, slaughter her only hen to make you soup?"

"Go on, go on, keep going."

Wen Leyu's eyes sparkled; she propped her chin on one hand, urging Li Ye to continue.

Li Ye smiled. "What's left to say? Some works are merely products of their time. In another decade or two, except for a few classics, most will be forgotten."

"Really? That doesn't seem likely!"

Wen Leyu didn't believe it, but she didn't know that decades later, schoolchildren wouldn't even sing "The North Wind Blows," let alone those non-representative works.

Even the author of "Scar" had emigrated to the Lighthouse after receiving over a thousand yuan in royalties, becoming an overseas Chinese and almost ceasing related writing.

In the long river of history, how many passersby leave behind more than a fleeting ripple?

"What's the second example?"

Wen Leyu clearly wasn't satisfied and pressed Li Ye for the second example.

Li Ye said: "My second example is the Soviet writer Solzhenitsyn. He suffered severe harm and was unquestionably a literary warrior."

"Solzhenitsyn criticized many Soviet figures and was eventually forced into exile. Yet this man, whose pen made countless Soviet elites feel ashamed—do you know what his Nobel Prize citation said?"

Li Ye paused for several seconds, then said under Wen Leyu's expectant gaze: "Solzhenitsyn praised the Slavic people as great, the Slavic spirit as strong, Slavic literature as powerful—his entire speech was praise for the homeland that had harmed him."

Wen Leyu stared at Li Ye in astonishment, not understanding his meaning.

After a long silence, she asked: "Why?"

Li Ye said solemnly: "Because he loved the land that gave him life and raised him. He wrote not only out of hatred, but also out of love for that land."

"He wrote hoping that land could become better."

"But in these two stories, I see no such love. Then why did they write them? How could such works possibly endure?"

Li Ye tossed the two magazines aside, like discarding two dirty rags.

After talking with Wen Leyu, Li Ye quickly forgot about the matter.

But over a dozen days later, he was startled to see a review of "The Death of Li Xiaomao" and "The Boatman's Three Days and Three Nights" in the newspaper.

The author, signing as "Wen Hua," had copied almost word-for-word Li Ye's earlier remarks, using "The White-Haired Girl" as an example to condemn Wan Zhiyue and Chai Kenan for lacking human kindness.

Li Ye immediately went to find Wen Leyu and asked if she was "Wen Hua."

Wen Leyu whispered to Li Ye: "It's not me—it's my brother. I wrote a draft for him as reference, but he took it and used it directly."

Li Ye: "."

Wen Leyu felt slightly guilty, grabbing Li Ye's hand. "I've scolded my brother severely. He says he owes you a huge favor—if you're angry, blame me."

"Why would I blame you?" Li Ye smiled and patted Wen Leyu's head. "We're one and the same. What's mine is yours. If you'd told me earlier, I could've polished it to be even sharper."

Wen Leyu beamed, accepting Li Ye's head pat. "My brother said the same thing—he said we've always been decent, never provoked anyone, yet they pointed fingers at us. This can't be let go."

"."

"Decent, never provoked anyone"—that struck right at Li Ye's heart.

He just wrote a few books to earn royalties, yet someone was stepping on his shoulders, pulling his ears—how could he just let it go?

When Li Ye heard Liu Muhan mention those two people laughing at him, referencing "Fires of the Deserting Soldier," he knew this wasn't over.

Whether Chai Kenan and Wan Zhiyue acted intentionally or not, since they launched baseless attacks, they'd inevitably face consequences.

I write about the War of Resistance, about soldiers who bled for Zhonghua—what did that ever do to you?

Consequences? Deserved!

He didn't even need to lift a finger—someone would rush to take the lead.

But he hadn't expected the backlash to come so fiercely.

The publication of Wen Hua's review was like a battle horn, igniting a wildfire of reactions.

Within just two weeks, dozens of articles appeared across major newspapers, launching a heated debate over "the absence of kindness," growing more intense by the day.

And at the center of this storm were Wan Zhiyue and Chai Kenan.

"Lao Wan, any news yet? What's going on? Why is everyone targeting us?"

"I don't know! I've asked around, everyone says it's normal literary discussion—but if this keeps up, we'll become famous."

"We're already famous."

Chai Kenan gripped his phone tightly, gritting his teeth: "Think again—have you offended anyone recently?"

"No!" Wan Zhiyue sighed. "I've checked multiple times. We've never offended anyone with that kind of power."

"If not a big figure, could it be... a small one?"

"."

"Seven-Inch Blade?"

"Seven-Inch Blade?"

"Why him? What right does he have?"

Both exclaimed in shock, unable to believe it.

Some people are born to lecture others, imposing their own notions of right and wrong, demanding others submit to and accept their "spiritual criticism."

Especially someone like Li Ye—so young, with "flaws" in his work—how could he possibly be on the same level as them?

(End of Chapter)