Chapter 53: Even the Donkeys in the Production Brigade Weren’t Worked This Hard (Seeking Readers)

In October, the weather in Yan Capital had grown much more comfortable. Returning to the guesthouse at dusk, he felt a faint chill sitting on the back seat of the bicycle. It was Liu Yu who brought him home; the others were still chatting about poetry in the communal courtyard.

Liu Yu, a child of the North Film Studio, was lively—perhaps due to his upbringing. He feared Liu Yimin might feel awkward leaving the courtyard, so he kept up a steady stream of conversation along the way.

"Yimin, school is about to start, isn't it? I have two good friends, one is Tian Zhuangzhuang whom everyone was talking about, and the other is Chen Kaige. They're students too, in the directing department of the North Film Academy. You work with the pen; they work with cameras, but it's all art. Someday, we should all sit together.

Our circle loves to discuss literature and poetry. Apart from Bei Dao and a few others, most are quite outspoken—in old Yan Capital parlance, they love to play. Take Tian Zhuangzhuang, for instance. His father was the longtime director of North Film Studio, and he's always swearing.

Anyway, to sum it up, there’ll be plenty of opportunities in Yan Capital. Sooner or later, the literary world will belong to us young people."

After Liu Yimin left, the discussion in the courtyard grew quite heated, but the more they talked, the more something seemed missing. They had expected Liu Yimin to gladly accept their olive branch, but he had shut the door in their faces.

After a brief silence, Huang Rui said sarcastically, "This one from Yu Province is really not like us!"

Zhang Pengzhi snorted, crossed his arms, and shook his leg, sneering, "Honestly, he’s just a country bumpkin. The poetry he writes is like sweet potatoes dug from the ground—rustic!"

"Sweet potatoes are good! When we were sent to the countryside, getting a sweet potato was enough to make you happy for half a day!"

"Enough. In the literary world, it’s the work that matters. If you have the skill, write a decent poem yourself."

Bei Dao, rubbing his temples helplessly, felt some dissatisfaction but kept it to himself. He sensed that Liu Yimin was not one of them; from his poetry, Liu Yimin inclined toward optimism, while his own leaned toward melancholy.

Seeing the group fall silent, Bei Dao said calmly, "We must publish our magazine—a poetry magazine for our generation and our time, to voice what has long been pent up in our hearts, to keep speaking out. But we must be careful—go to work as usual, and take leave when necessary for discussions."

Leaving the courtyard, Bei Dao glanced in the direction Liu Yimin had gone, feeling a headache. Clearly, Liu Yimin’s poetry alone could not sustain a magazine; he would need to find more contributors.

Liu Yimin cared little for the reactions of those behind him. In the literary world, it’s all about the work.

If you have no work, your actions are considered presumptuous; if you have work worth showing, people call you a man of temperament, noble and aloof.

When the old masters of the Republic spoke of taking their children to brothels, they were fondly called "unconstrained." Is it your fault? No, it’s not. The world’s measure is always wavering.

This side is wide, that side tight!

After Liu Yu left, Liu Yimin had just opened his room door when Zou Huofan, from next door, came out, curious. "Back so soon?"

"Comrade Zou, you sound surprised."

"I thought you young folks would have endless things to talk about. What did you discuss?"

"Comrade Zou, why so curious? Not much. I’m new to Yan Capital, unfamiliar with many things. Listening to their stories about the city was enough."

Liu Yimin invited Zou Huofan inside, but he declined, calling him to dinner.

"You did right. Without investigation, there’s no right to speak. The winds in the literary world never cease—sometimes even whirlwinds, strange winds, black winds. Just arrived in Yan Capital, best to be cautious. Enough of that. After dinner and a rest, let’s go for a bath tonight.

Soon you won’t be able to stay in the guesthouse. Then, a bath will be hard to come by!"

That night, nothing of note—just a soak in the bathhouse…

While bathing, Zou Huofan told him that tomorrow the poetry journal’s training class would invite Mr. Ai Qing to lecture. Ai Qing had just returned from Xinjiang, and Zou Huofan had invited him over.

It was called a lecture, but really, he wouldn’t speak about specifics—just offer encouragement.

The next morning, in the writers’ association conference room, many had already gathered when Liu Yimin arrived. The editors of the poetry journal had set aside their work to attend.

Cui Daoyi from People’s Literature was there too. Seeing Liu Yimin, he sat beside him and asked about his novel’s progress.

"Senior, why not just lock me in a room, give me three meals a day, and let me spend twenty-four hours at my desk, writing—except for eating and sleeping?"

Liu Yimin said helplessly. He’d just left here yesterday, and today they were asking about progress. Even the donkeys in Maiji Brigade weren’t worked so hard except during double cropping or drought.

"Would you really do it?"

Liu Yimin, face stern, pointed to the door, "Mr. Ai Qing is here. Why not ask him if this is how you treat the next generation of writers?"

Cui Daoyi shrank his head and, smiling, threw an arm around Liu Yimin’s shoulder. "How could I bear to treat you like that? You’re my beloved junior. If the Chinese department teachers found out, they’d skin me alive!"

"Comrades, please sit down. After so long, I’m grateful you still remember me. Seeing all this, I can’t help but feel moved. This moment is just like those moments past. We’ve been through so much, but we’ve made it. Now, the poetry world is truly revived, full of vitality… The future of poetry rests in your hands.

Recently, the poetry journal has published many poems. My favorite is ‘Oh Motherland, My Beloved Motherland.’ It reminds me of when I wrote ‘I Love This Land’ in 1938…

The journal asked me to lecture, but I think the lesson isn’t what matters now—spirit matters, confidence matters..."

Mr. Ai Qing spoke for about thirty minutes. When he finished, the hall erupted in applause, many rushing to shake his hand.

Liu Yimin wanted to go up as well but couldn’t get through the crowd, so he gave up.

Shortly after Ai Qing left, Liu Yimin returned to the guesthouse. He had planned to ride Zou Huofan’s bicycle to tour Tiananmen; he still hadn’t completed the task Li Lanyong had given him.

Since it was still National Day, he intended to take some good photos and send them home.

Zou Huofan came and told him, "Yimin, don’t go out. Mr. Ai Qing is in the editorial office chatting with Chief Editor Yan, and wants to see you!"

Liu Yimin happily secured the bike and ran several steps before turning back. "Comrade Zou, do you have a camera? I’d like to take a photo with Mr. Ai Qing."

Liu Yimin was very fond of Ai Qing’s "I Love This Land," especially the line, "Why are my eyes always full of tears? Because I love this land deeply." It was a phrase he often recalled.

"Go to the editorial office first—I’ll borrow a camera from the writers’ association."

"Thank you!"

"I’ll take one too. Honestly, I hadn’t thought of it until you mentioned it. We haven’t met in ages!"

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