Chapter 29: Such Arrogance

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In the hearts of poets, The Poetry Journal holds a position nearly equivalent to that of The People's Literature in the literary world—it is the sole national-level magazine dedicated exclusively to publishing poetry and poetry criticism.

Both magazines operate under the Writers’ Association, akin to twin brothers. Their fates are intertwined; both have only recently resumed publication, with The Poetry Journal relaunching in 1976.

Once the Gang of Four was overthrown, The Poetry Journal threw off its burdens entirely, preparing for a vigorous new era. Internally, they even coined a slogan: "Look only forward, not back."

On August 13, editors of The Poetry Journal were frantically searching through piles of submissions, each one perspiring beneath the summer heat. At the center of the editorial office, a vacant table bore a bowl of freshly sliced watermelon, beside which lay discarded watermelon rinds.

On the wall hung the editorial mission: "To serve socialism, to serve the people," alongside the "Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend" policy.

Poetry differs from fiction; it rarely exceeds a few hundred words, and an attentive editor can finish a poem in ten minutes, ensuring no worthwhile verse escapes notice.

Of course, some poems are enigmatic, requiring considerable effort to decipher their intent—a true test of the editor’s analytical skills.

When they encounter a remarkable poem, editors often recite it aloud, oblivious to their surroundings, inviting colleagues to critique together. In contrast, editors at The People’s Literature, tasked with reading thousands of words in a short story, would be utterly exhausted; a novella would nearly be their undoing.

Zou Huofan, editor at The Poetry Journal, was sifting through a stack of submission letters. He was not only a poet but also a writer; for him, editorial work was anything but tedious—it filled him with purpose.

At sixty-one, he worked with the vigor of a young man.

He especially enjoyed reading submissions from former poet friends, as their verses revealed their current lives and mental states.

Since transferring to The Poetry Journal this year, he frequently corresponded with old friends, learning that some struggled in rural areas, and occasionally offering aid.

Upon receiving a submission, Zou Huofan always checked the sender’s address and name, hoping to recognize a friend.

"Liu Yimin." Zou Huofan read the name softly, certain it sounded familiar, but could not recall immediately.

He shook his head and pressed on, quickly opening the envelope. A small slip of paper fell onto the desk, catching his curiosity. On reading it, he chuckled.

"Please specify the author's affiliation if published—Ruxian..." Zou Huofan snorted; such confidence bordered on arrogance, as if the author presumed publication was guaranteed.

"We’ll see if I publish your work!"

Zou Huofan adjusted his reading glasses, determined to scrutinize this writer’s "masterpiece," to see what sort of work inspired such audacious tone.

A mischievous thought flickered in his mind: to reject the poem, pick it apart, and send it back.

He unfolded the manuscript and began to read, a playful smile on his lips.

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At the first line, Zou Huofan’s playful gaze vanished, his grip on the paper tightening unconsciously.

He had been lounging in his chair, but as his attention sharpened, he sat upright without realizing.

Upon reaching the end, he slapped the table with his hand, sprang to his feet, kicking the chair away behind him in excitement.

His sudden movement startled the editor across from him; they shared a large table, so his action felt like an earthquake, drawing a look of wounded indignation from his colleagues as Zou Huofan was swept up in fervor.

He struck a dramatic pose, spread his arms wide, and began to recite with exaggerated gestures:

"Motherland, my beloved motherland!
I am your battered old waterwheel by the river,
Spinning weary songs for hundreds of years;
I am the coal lamp blackened on your brow,
Lighting your slow, groping journey through history’s tunnel...."

"Wonderful! Old Zou, who wrote this?" one editor asked, curiosity piqued after Zou Huofan finished.

"You first—what do you all think of this poem?" Zou Huofan demanded, pointing to each editor in turn.

"It’s excellent, truly excellent. Vivid and moving, heartfelt and sincere. The metaphors are fresh and imaginative."

The editorial office burst into animated discussion.

Chief Editor Yan Chen, hearing the commotion outside, hurried over. With the racket Zou Huofan made, ignoring it was impossible. Unfortunately, he caught only the latter half of the recitation; the first half was a blur, yet it was that very blur that left him anxious.

He strode quickly to Zou Huofan, smiling as he took the manuscript and began to read anew.

"This author must be from the north, Old Zou. Am I right?" Yan Chen wagered after reading the opening lines.

"Why, Old Yan?" Zou Huofan replied.

"Because the poem describes shriveled wheat ears; if it were a southerner, it would have been rice ears!" Yan Chen laughed.

"Exactly. Look further—these metaphors are distinctive. The poet has a certain spirit; without it, one cannot become a poet." Zou Huofan picked up a slice of watermelon and took a hearty bite, his mouth parched after the recitation.

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"The theme is clear, the patriotism leaps off the page. In this new era, we need passionate young people like this. The Chairman was right: the world belongs to the youth. To write such poetry, the author must surely be young."

Yan Chen finished reading and turned his gaze back to Zou Huofan.

Zou Huofan did not nod, as he did not know Liu Yimin’s age. "Old Yan, then you guess—who wrote this?"

"Don’t keep me guessing—just tell us already, everyone’s impatient!" Yan Chen urged.

"Liu Yimin. Never heard the name—must be a newcomer," Zou Huofan replied with a smile.

The editors leaned on their hands in thought, until one suddenly slapped his thigh and exclaimed, "Isn’t it Liu Yimin from Ruxian, Lu City, Henan Province?"

Seeing his excitement, Zou Huofan quickly checked the envelope—indeed, it was. He asked, "Do you know Liu Yimin?"

"Oh, you’ve forgotten! Didn’t this month’s issue of The People’s Literature publish 'Lu De Shui'? The author is Liu Yimin!"

Zou Huofan slapped his forehead and suddenly understood. "Ah, so it’s him! No wonder the name felt familiar, though I couldn’t place it—he’s the author of 'Lu De Shui.' No wonder he can write such excellent poetry.

I was wondering whose tone was so audacious!"

The others immediately burst out laughing, the room alight with cheerful energy.

The discussion of the poem took on newfound enthusiasm—this newcomer not only writes outstanding fiction but remarkable poetry as well.

He was indeed a sensation, a voice that startled the world!

Seizing the break, led by Zou Huofan, everyone rose to grab a slice of watermelon, forgoing manners as the first to eat would be embarrassed alone.

They devoured the watermelon swiftly, hardly anyone spitting out the seeds. As they ate, they glanced at their colleagues, smiles on their faces full of subtle meaning.

Thanks to Liu Yimin, they finally had an excuse to enjoy watermelon!