Chapter 52: Refusing to Join "Today" Magazine (Please Keep Reading)

The corridor outside the editorial department of Poetry Magazine was already cramped, and with the arrival of several people, it became thoroughly blocked. The one at the front wore a solemn expression, melancholic and reserved, while the others behind him laughed and joked. At the very end trailed another, making them seem like a group, yet not quite one.

The leader was dressed in a dark blue Zhongshan suit, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He sized up Liu Yimin and then smiled, asking, “You must be Comrade Liu Yimin, the author of ‘A Generation’?”

“Yes, that’s me! And you are?”

“You really are the writer of ‘Oh, My Beloved Motherland,’ Liu Yimin. You look much more spirited than old Zhao!” Monk chimed in.

Bei Dao, having confirmed that the young man before him was indeed Liu Yimin, gestured to the others and said, “Hello, hello, I am Zhao Zhenkai. This is Jiang Shiwei, Huang Rui, Liu Yu, and the one at the back is Guo Lusheng, also known as Shizhi.”

A crowd had gathered at the entrance to the editorial department, prompting the senior editors inside to come out and greet the magazine’s main contributors. Yet, today there was something peculiar in the way they looked at them.

Bei Dao was unsure what to make of it but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he invited Liu Yimin to take a stroll around Yanjing.

The editors, having overheard Liu Yimin’s words, pondered how much of a stir these young people might cause in the poetry world in the coming days.

Watching Liu Yimin mingling with the others, they mused to themselves: He was just complaining about the younger generation, yet Liu Yimin himself was one of them.

“You all arrived together, quite the group. Did you bring any manuscripts?” Zou Huofan teased.

Monk laughed, “Comrade Zou, don’t be so impatient. With Comrade Yimin in Yanjing, how could you ever lack submissions?”

Zou Huofan simply smiled and said to Liu Yimin, “Yimin, come back early. I’d like to play a couple rounds of chess with you tonight.”

“Comrade Zou, you won’t lose me. Don’t worry!” Bei Dao, usually somber and burdened with thoughts, joked.

Taking Liu Yimin by the arm, they left the editorial department. Everyone had arrived by bicycle, and Bei Dao invited Liu Yimin to sit on the back seat as he cycled, introducing him to the sights of Yanjing along the way.

Shizhi, as before, rode his bicycle behind the group, occasionally glancing at Liu Yimin.

“This is Nanluogu Lane; ahead is the Drum Tower. Look south, that’s the old Empress Dowager’s home!”

Bei Dao brought Liu Yimin to a large courtyard near the Drum Tower, which, according to their introduction, was the home of Zhang Pengzhi. They pushed open the door and found Zhang Pengzhi arranging chairs and tables. Seeing them enter, he said with delight, “This must be Comrade Liu Yimin?”

“Are you ready?”

“We’re ready. Liu Yu brought the tea leaves and they’re already brewing. Liu Yu, you’re truly from the North Film Studio—your father’s taste is impressive!” Zhang Pengzhi waved his hand before his nose, inviting everyone to savor the aroma.

“Get out of here! These aren’t mine; they belong to Tian Zhuanzhuang’s father. My dad could never match the old director’s class!” Liu Yu retorted with a laugh.

“Hey! The old director has been with Marx for years, yet there’s still so much stock at home?”

“Maybe it’s Tian Zhuanzhuang’s mother’s!”

“Yes, his mother’s!”

They all burst out laughing.

Liu Yu was a child of the North Film Studio, having grown up with Director Chen and Tian Zhuanzhuang. Yes, the very same Director Chen who made a film said to be incomprehensible for a decade.

Ten years and another ten have passed—guess what?

That film, mocked as “the bloodshed caused by a steamed bun,” remains as baffling as ever!

Once everyone was seated, Shizhi got up and said, “I’m leaving.”

Bei Dao asked in confusion, “Didn’t you want to meet Comrade Liu Yimin? He’s right here—why leave so soon?”

“I’ve already met him. He looks no different from me.” With that, Shizhi departed without a backward glance.

Monk slung an arm over Liu Yimin’s shoulder and said, “Guo Lusheng is quite impressive—he wrote ‘Yanjing at 4:08.’ But he’s... well... you know, he’s had treatment before.”

As Monk spoke, he twirled his index finger beside his head.

“I think when Shizhi wrote that line in ‘Yanjing at 4:08’—‘My heart suddenly aches; surely it’s the needle and thread my mother uses to sew buttons piercing my chest’—that must have been from personal experience,” Liu Yu chimed in to lighten the mood.

“How so?”

“When my mother finished sewing my clothes, I put them on and felt something poking me. I searched and searched, and guess what?”

“Guess what?”

After sipping his tea, Liu Yu declared loudly, “I found the needle my mom had lost for days!”

With Liu Yu’s antics, the atmosphere turned lively and warm. The group gathered together to discuss current policies, then began to recite poetry. When it was Liu Yimin’s turn, he recited his own poem, “Oh, My Beloved Motherland.”

Each recital was brimming with passion and vigor. Seeing the moment was ripe, Bei Dao spoke first, “Yimin, don’t you feel something is missing in today’s poetry scene?”

“I’ve just arrived in Yanjing and am not familiar with the environment yet,” Liu Yimin replied.

“We’re planning to start a magazine. We’ve already got the name: ‘Today.’ These days, we’re searching for a mimeograph. Monk and I will handle the creative work; Liu Yu and Zhang Pengzhi will be in charge of theory; Huang Rui will be our art editor. Yimin, we’re inviting you to join ‘Today’ and help invigorate our nation’s poetry scene.”

After Bei Dao finished, the group looked expectantly at Liu Yimin.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you all. I’m still unfamiliar with Yanjing, so…”

Before Liu Yimin could finish, Monk interjected, “We understand—our mistake. Yimin just stepped off the train and hasn’t even left the Writers’ Association yet. Let’s not talk about it anymore. We’ll discuss other things, and you’re always welcome to join us in the future.”

The conversation shifted, eventually turning to the topic of manuscript fees, and even the utilitarian nature of writing. They agreed that poets shouldn’t write for payment. In truth, this meant poems published in “Today” would have no fee—powered by love alone.

“Yimin, what do you think?”

“Reasonable remuneration is beneficial to the prosperity of literature. After all, poets and writers need to eat. Money has never regarded me as dung—why should I regard money as dung? If money were a living thing, wouldn’t viewing it as dung be unfair to it?”

“That metaphor of Yimin’s is witty and philosophical. I think he’s something of a philosopher!” Bei Dao said, after pondering for a moment.

Liu Yimin had no intention of joining “Today.” It wasn’t about whether he liked most of the poets involved; he simply didn’t want to step into the vortex of the poetry world’s future.

He thought: I’ve been reborn—must I wander with you, pasting illegal K-material everywhere, only to be banned again?

As the sun began to set, Liu Yimin excused himself, saying Zou Huofan was waiting to play chess, and returned to the guesthouse.

Please keep reading and vote for the story! I’m so tired—I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I’ll take a nap now. When I wake, will I see a few more votes? Dear readers, I thank you on my knees!