Chapter 68: "Ideal"

This poem, "Ideal," was originally written by Liu Shahe and published in Poetry Magazine in 1981. Liu Yimin allowed readers to encounter it a few years early, and during high school, it was frequently recited, each time with passionate fervor.

"Ideal is stone, striking sparks of fire;
Ideal is fire, lighting extinguished lamps;
Ideal is a lamp, illuminating the road at night;
Ideal is the road, leading you to dawn.

In times of hunger and cold, ideal is sustenance;
In times of sustenance, ideal is civilization.
In times of chaos, ideal is stability.
In times of stability, ideal is prosperity.

Ideal is like pearls, one strung after another,
Connecting past and present, threading the future, shining endlessly.
A beautiful necklace of pearls, the backbone of history,
The past illuminates the present, the present lights the future, ancestors shine upon descendants.

Ideal is a compass, guiding ships on their course;
Ideal is the ship, carrying you across the sea to distant places.
...
Please mount the horse of ideal, whip it and set forth from here,
The scenery along the road is splendid, the sun above shines clear."

After finishing, Liu Yimin was overcome by sleepiness, rolled over onto the bed, and soon drifted into slumber. Early the next morning, upon waking, he found Zou Huofan already at his door, unable to wait to see the completed poem.

Liu Yimin yawned and pointed to the manuscript paper at the bedside. "Comrade Zou, take a look yourself—it's right there. I’m off to wash my face."

In the communal washroom, Old Ma was grumbling as he worked on the drainpipe. For some reason, someone had dragged him out of bed early, saying the water room was blocked.

"How are you feeling?" Old Ma asked as he worked.

"It's nothing, just a bit of a headache!"

"You drink like a parrot from Yunnan and Guizhou, so little—your tolerance is poor. Yesterday was nothing, not my usual amount. Normally, I..." Old Ma gestured a 'three' with his free hand.

Yunnan and Guizhou referred to a former companion from the Eight Banners he often worked with, who always carried a bird. Later, the bird died, and he couldn't afford a new one, so he carried the cage. Eventually, even the cage was sold. Afraid of being looked down upon, he insisted his bird was divine, invisible to others and only seen by himself.

Liu Yimin watched Old Ma brag and didn’t expose him. From his experience, if Old Ma drank two more shots, he’d probably remember nothing in the morning.

Since the washroom was unusable, Liu Yimin helped Old Ma with the repairs, though their efforts proved fruitless.

"Ideal is stone, striking sparks of fire;
Ideal is fire, lighting extinguished lamps;
Ideal is a lamp, illuminating the road at night;"

As the two worked, Zou Huofan’s voice approached, reciting verses, until he was loudly declaiming in the washroom. Old Ma tapped his ear, the echoes making his eardrums ache.

"Yimin, you’re not only a model for young people, but also their motivator. You call everyone to pursue ideals bravely. By concretizing ideal as 'stone, fire, lamp,' you illustrate its significance for us. Then, in different eras, you show how ideals take shape.

The language is concise, rhythmic, bright in tone, suitable for recitation, with rises and falls. As I read it aloud, I felt my heart opening, small ideals turning into greater ones.

Ah, it’s beautiful! The final line is a sublimation: ‘The scenery along the road is splendid, the sun above shines clear,’ telling everyone—go forth bravely now, don’t miss this beautiful time."

Zou Huofan was utterly entranced, leaning against the door as if about to dream of “Ideal.”

At that moment, the drainpipe gave a sudden "pop" and cleared. Old Ma washed his dirty hands, showed his yellowed teeth, and said proudly, "This poem is good—I understood it!"

Zou Huofan, delighted, exclaimed, "Even Old Ma gets it—proof that the poem is truly good! Poetry is written for the people; if the masses can’t understand, what’s the point? Old Ma, tell us!"

"I don’t remember much, but those lines stuck: In times of hunger and cold, ideal is sustenance. When I was starving, all I could think of was a bite to eat." Old Ma wiped his hands on his clothes and walked over to Zou Huofan, speaking earnestly.

"Go on, Old Ma. What about when you’re full?"

"When I’m full, I think about the Eight Great Lanes!"

Zou Huofan’s face darkened, his hand trembled, and he gritted his teeth. "Old Ma, in times of sustenance, ideal is civilization!"

"Civilization? Hey, when I’m full, can’t I think a bit more? I wasn’t thinking anything uncivilized. Once I’ve eaten, I have energy to tidy myself up, wash clean—that’s civilization, isn’t it?"

Old Ma explained seriously.

"Exactly! Cleanliness is civilization."

"Once I’m tidy, I’ll go to the kiln..."

"Alright, Old Ma, Comrade Zou gets your meaning," Liu Yimin laughed. In truth, Old Ma wasn’t wrong—when people are warm and fed, they become restless, though few admit it.

Zou Huofan left the washroom, telling Liu Yimin he must write a review of the poem. Not only was the content beautiful, but its form was as well, employing many rhetorical devices that deserved analysis.

"Comrade Zou, I’ll await your review next time. And this poem took a lot out of me—I hadn’t eaten or slept properly for days before inspiration struck. As a poet, you know what that’s like..."

"Seven yuan—enough said. I’ll talk to the editor-in-chief; if he doesn’t publish it, I’ll overturn the editorial office!" Zou Huofan declared with conviction.

Liu Yimin was taken aback by Zou’s determination and teased, "Just make a show of it; don’t really overturn it!"

"You really enjoy stirring things up!"

...

Back at Yan University, Liu Zhenyun and the others saw Liu Yimin return, exchanged glances, and moved closer to ask what he’d been up to the night before.

"Yesterday at the Literary Society—guess who we met?" Liu Zhenyun said mysteriously.

"Who?"

"Editor Zhou Yanru from Yanjing Literature, along with our senior Zhang Dening. Senior Chen Jiangong introduced us," Li Xueqin said happily.

"And then?"

"And then they asked why you hadn’t come," Chen Dazhi added.

"What did you say?"

Liu Zhenyun pondered, "We told the truth, said you’d taken your manuscript to People's Literature. I wanted to cover it up, but then realized telling the truth might raise your value in front of Yanjing Literature."

"Guess what they said?" Li Xueqin interrupted eagerly.

"What?"

Chen Dazhi put his hands on his hips and mimicked Zhou Yanru’s tone: "Who’s actually at People's Literature? Why send a manuscript to them—just write and submit?"

"Hahaha!"

Chen Dazhi’s imitation sent everyone in the dorm into laughter. Liu Zhenyun shot him a look—he’d wanted to mimic her himself, but was beaten to it. Indeed, Chen, usually quiet, was keen to make progress.

Two chapters delivered together—hoping for double votes, it's the end of the month, everyone, time to clear your shelves!