Chapter Ten: The Editorial Department's Cheers

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Another invigilator, curious about his resolute claim, walked over to Liu Yimin’s desk. To prevent sweat from soaking his test paper, Liu Yimin had carefully folded it and placed it in the upper left corner of his desk as he lay down.
The teacher, who had come specifically to check, could only see the first question and nothing else, making him circle the desk in anxious frustration. He paced around the area several times, unsettling the examinees nearby.
After a while, the invigilator walked up to Liu Yimin and whispered, “Wake up, and remember to check your answers after you finish.”
Hearing the voice, Liu Yimin slowly raised his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the invigilator, who gave him a conspiratorial wink.
He was becoming a spectacle. Resigned, Liu Yimin unfolded his test paper for the teacher to review.
Turning his gaze to the window, Liu Yimin saw the woman he had met at the school gate on the first day. She was breastfeeding a child, and after she finished, she handed the baby to her in-laws and hurried toward the examination hall, trailed by an invigilator watching her closely.
With the ringing of the bell three times, the Chinese exam finally ended.
As the invigilator collected his paper, he asked Liu Yimin in a voice only the two could hear, “Which high school did you graduate from?”
“From the County High!”
“Not bad. Do well on the next exams. If you get into university, your fate will change.”
Out in the corridor, many examinees hung their heads in dejection, though some loudly compared answers.
“For the second question, what’s the last character in the phrase? I wrote ‘majestic’—is that right?”
“No, it’s ‘proud’!”
“It’s ‘dignified’—you’re both wrong. But how do you write that character for ‘despicable and sordid inside’? I couldn’t!”
As Liu Yimin entered the restroom, he overheard someone say, “I finished everything. You have no idea—someone in our exam room slept through the test! Even after the invigilator woke him, he went back to sleep. How can someone like that hope to get into university? What a waste of the country’s paper!”
Liu Yimin, hoping to eavesdrop a bit, realized the comment was about him and shook his head helplessly.
The English test was in the afternoon, but it didn’t count toward the total score—it was just for reference. The questions were about the level Liu Yimin had encountered in junior high. Halfway through, he began answering randomly.

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The 1978 college entrance exam results would be announced soon, but anything too astonishing would be suspicious. Back in high school, there had hardly been any proper English classes—how could anyone expect to do well?
Since it didn’t count, slacking off was the best option.
Looking around, most students were also answering haphazardly; only a few were scratching their heads and thinking hard.
The foreign language exam lasted from two-thirty to four-thirty in the afternoon. By four o’clock, Liu Yimin had already submitted his paper and was pedaling his bicycle home.
If he left any later, he’d have to ride in the dark.
.....
Inside the editorial office of People’s Literature and Art, Deputy Editor-in-Chief Cui Daoyi was overwhelmed by the mountain of manuscripts piled on his desk. The summer in Yanjing was even hotter than in Ru County.
Seven or eight editors filled the office, two sharing each large desk cluttered with envelopes. Everyone was drenched in sweat—some had rolled up their trouser legs, while others fanned themselves tirelessly.
“Every summer, our whole editorial team loses all sense of decorum,” one editor remarked, glancing around and shaking his head with a smile.
“More infuriating than a loss of decorum is not finding a single decent manuscript,” Cui Daoyi replied without looking up. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and he quickly dabbed them with a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Old Cui, something’s odd today—not a single passable piece. What are people writing? Most are hardly better than a middle school essay.”
“Who could disagree? But it’s not their fault. At this point, we shouldn’t expect to find gold. If we see a useful stone, we should pick it up, wash it off—it might be of use once it’s clean.”
Cui Daoyi quipped.
“Old Cui, that’s a pretty deep metaphor,” said an editor, laughing.
As deputy editor-in-chief, Cui Daoyi had his own office, but he preferred working out here among the editors. That way, he could review any disputed submissions immediately.
“Comrades, we’ve wasted enough time. We must pull ourselves together—I feel like I’m about to find a good manuscript,” Cui Daoyi encouraged.
He stuffed the failed submission back into its envelope, tossed it aside, and picked up another. First, he checked the sender’s name—if it was a regular contributor, he’d read it carefully; if it was a well-known writer, he could almost celebrate in advance.
“Liu Yimin? Shiling Commune, Ru County, Yu Province. Another newcomer—let’s hope this one is decent.” Seeing the unfamiliar name, Cui Daoyi’s hopes were already low.

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Yet as a professional editor, and one of the capital’s famed “Four Great Editors,” he still gave the new writer’s work a fair glance.
Editors read quickly—a few lines were enough to form an impression. If the piece was intriguing, he’d keep reading; if not, it went straight into the reject pile.
“Donkey Gets Water”? What an odd title, Cui Daoyi mused.
Curious, he read the story. After a few lines, he found it interesting—the writing was at least competent, a world apart from the earlier submissions.
Cui Daoyi discreetly nodded and continued reading. When he reached the part where someone impersonates a donkey to claim teaching funds, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.
He began to wonder what the author was satirizing—was it satire at all?
Had Liu Yimin known his thoughts, he would’ve pleaded for mercy: “Cui Daoyi, please don’t get me into trouble!”
“Now, this is interesting,” Cui Daoyi muttered.
“What is it?”
“I mean this novel. The style doesn’t seem like a newcomer’s—full of humor and wit, the earlier passages brimming with metaphor. I haven’t finished yet, but for a new writer to produce something like this is impressive.”
As he read, Cui Daoyi made notes for revisions where necessary.
By the end, he exclaimed, “This is a great piece! Comrades, I’ve found a nugget of gold! The plot is tight, the writing flows effortlessly, the logic is rigorous, and the characters are rich and vivid—on par with the works of great masters. If the envelope hadn’t listed an unknown author, I’d have thought it was written by someone famous.”
“Really? Let me see!” an editor said excitedly—a work praised by Cui Daoyi was bound to be top-notch.
“No, I have to show this to Old Zhang!”