Chapter 54: Ai Qing: Well Said! (Please Keep Reading)

Inside the editorial office, Ai Qing was sitting in Yan Chen’s office, chatting. The two of them were discussing the current literary scene. Ai Qing had returned to Yanjing from the border province, but the labels attached to him had yet to be torn off.

They first talked about some old friends who had yet to return, then moved on to discuss the new generation of poets.

“That young man Beidau—I’ve met him. He’s got a real gift for poetry. You should publish and cultivate more young writers; they are the future of poetry. As for us old-timers, sooner or later we’ll all return to the earth.”

Ai Qing had met Beidau quite early on and greatly admired the young man. In fact, the rise of obscure poetry had something to do with Ai Qing’s support.

He couldn’t have known that one day he would be criticized as the “tyrant of poetry.”

“Old Ai, I’m truly glad you’re back. The literary world is in need of revival. Old Zhang is personally overseeing ‘People’s Literature and Art.’ When the time is right, how about coming over to ‘Poetry Journal’?”

“I’ll follow whatever the organization decides, but ‘Poetry Journal’ is really up to you all. Old Zou is doing a fine job!”

Liu Yimin had arrived early but, hearing the lively conversation inside, had decided not to interrupt. It’s like tossing a peanut into a bowl of sunflower seeds—not only are the seeds out of place, but so is the peanut.

“Yimin, Mr. Ai Qing thinks very highly of you. You must bring honor to our Yu Province’s literary scene,” Ge Luo said, pouring Liu Yimin a cup of tea brewed with wild chrysanthemums his wife had picked and dried last autumn. Wild chrysanthemums can’t be steeped for too long, or they become terribly bitter.

These days, famous writers and poets from Yu Province are few and far between. Once known as the land of Li, Du, and Bai, its literary aura had declined so much that it pained Ge Luo every time he thought about it. So whenever he saw Liu Yimin, he always felt a special kinship.

Ge Luo felt that finding a fellow native with such great potential in Yanjing was as rare as running into a stranger from China in Africa during the 1974 construction of the TAZARA Railway.

Liu Yimin smiled faintly, expressing his gratitude for the chrysanthemum tea.

Zou Huofan arrived at the editorial office carrying a camera borrowed from the Writers’ Association. Seeing Liu Yimin chatting with Ge Luo, he called out, “Yimin, let’s go in together.”

After pushing open the door, Zou Huofan introduced him, “Comrade Ai Qing, this is Comrade Liu Yimin.”

Ai Qing looked Liu Yimin over and extended his hand. “I saw you earlier from the podium. You were sitting next to that young Cui from ‘People’s Literature and Art,’ weren’t you?”

Liu Yimin was taken aback, not expecting Ai Qing to have noticed him, and nodded with a smile. “Comrade Cui Daoyi is my senior; he was just urging me for a manuscript.”

“You see? That’s why I don’t want to join ‘Poetry Journal’—I’d end up like young Cui, becoming a bothersome editor always chasing after manuscripts. Young man, you don’t know—back in the day, I had the same problem. No inspiration, yet always being asked for work. I couldn’t just submit something perfunctory. I understand how you feel, comrade.”

“Mr. Ai, I’m so thrilled to meet you. There were too many people earlier, and I’m not good at pushing forward. ‘Dayanhe—My Mother’ and ‘I Love This Land’ are my two favorites.”

Hearing this, Ai Qing raised his eyebrows and glanced with interest at Yan Chen and Zou Huofan. “Oh? Tell me more.”

“I think that whether it’s poetry or realist novels, they are all closely tied to our land, our people, our country, and our era. Only works deeply rooted in the earth are truly good works—the people’s works. These two poems were written during a time of national poverty and weakness, praising the land and the people, and expressing love for the country.

Our love for this land is what will carry us into the future. If we do not love this land, if we become estranged from these roots and from thousands of years of Chinese culture, I don’t know where we will end up!”

As Liu Yimin spoke, Ai Qing’s hands, originally clasped behind his back, slowly moved to the front, and his previously relaxed posture straightened. For a moment, he felt as if Liu Yimin were a peer, someone who had also lived through those times.

When talking with Beidau and his circle, these young people never spoke this way. They valued personal freedom and their inner worlds, a somber style Ai Qing didn’t particularly like but didn’t dislike either, attributing it to different personalities and backgrounds.

There was also a kind of elder’s affection for the young, a senior’s broad tolerance for the next generation, so he was willing to support these young people in expressing their ideas.

“Comrade Yimin, well said, well said! We may face temporary setbacks, but we must believe the future is bright.”

After shedding the labels placed on him, Ai Qing’s poetry included both criticism of the past ten years and praise for a brighter future. In his poem ‘Fish Fossil,’ he compared that period to an earthquake—after the ‘fish’ was buried by the quake, it became a fossil, but eventually, it was discovered by a geologist.

The poem ends with a spirit of optimism and forward movement.

Liu Yimin took the opportunity to express his wish for a photo together, and Ai Qing, with genuine warmth, clasped Liu Yimin’s hand for a picture.

“What a pity!” Liu Yimin said.

Ai Qing looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong, Yimin?”

“It’s a pity the photo won’t be ready right away. Otherwise, I could have asked you to sign it!”

Ai Qing laughed. “Once I’m settled, you can come find me anytime.”

After seeing Ai Qing off, Zou Huofan said, “Yimin, did you notice? In the end, Old Ai started calling you just ‘Yimin’—you’ve really made an impression! Take the camera, you’ll need it if you want to take pictures at Tiananmen. Just bring it back tonight; the association’s photographer will have the pictures developed for you.”

Zou Huofan spoke cheerfully, but worried Liu Yimin might damage the camera, so he hastily reminded him to take good care of it.

“Comrade Old Zou, thank you! If ‘Poetry Journal’ ever holds a contest for best editor, I’ll be sure to vote for you!”

“Oh, stop it. If you vote for me, your fellow townsman might get jealous!” Zou Huofan waved him off, smiling as he watched Liu Yimin leave. Then, turning around, he realized he’d forgotten to tell Liu Yimin to go easy on the pedals—this young man had so much energy he might just end up pedaling standing up!

…

Outside the editorial office of ‘People’s Literature and Art,’ Cui Daoyi spotted a girl in plain clothes pacing at the entrance, holding an envelope in her hand.

He wasn’t sure what she was thinking; her left foot, in canvas shoes, kept tripping over her right. If there’d been an ant, it would have been crushed by now.

“Hello, comrade. Submitting work? I’m an editor at ‘People’s Literature and Art’!”

Zhu Lin was startled by the sudden voice, shrank back with an “ah,” then patted her chest and said, “I’m not submitting a manuscript, I’m a reader. I wrote a letter. I live in Xidan, so I figured I didn’t need to mail it.”

“A reader’s letter?” Cui Daoyi’s enthusiasm faded, but he still took Zhu Lin’s letter. “Just give it to me.”

“Thank you, comrade!” Zhu Lin said, then hopped on her bicycle and sped away.

“Comrade?” Cui Daoyi pursed his lips. A university graduate from ’56 already being called ‘comrade old-timer’? He almost tossed the reader’s letter aside, but glancing at it, he noticed the words:

“‘Gaokao 1977’? For Yimin?”

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