Chapter 72: Scar Literature Won't Go Far (Please Keep Reading)

Liu Zhenyun shrank his neck and fell silent after hearing this. The students who had just returned from the restroom cheered and waved their arms excitedly upon learning that the class was going to hold a small debate—some even rushed out to call more people in.

Liu Yimin and Zhang Manling stood on opposite sides of the podium. The topic was—"Is Dream of the Red Chamber a work of Scar Literature by Cao Xueqin?" Liu Yimin thought the topic was rather far-fetched and suspected that this senior had simply had a sudden flash of inspiration; judging by her expression, she might already be regretting it.

Liu Yimin was the first to speak. “Zhang Manling, why do you believe Dream of the Red Chamber is a work of Scar Literature?”

Zhang Manling took a deep breath. Standing on the podium and looking out over the large lecture hall, especially as more students from other departments filtered in and a steady stream of people kept coming, her heart pounded in her chest.

By asking first and prompting Zhang Manling to defend her position, Liu Yimin put her in the position of providing proof while he retained the initiative in the debate.

“I won’t go into the origins of Scar Literature,” Zhang Manling began. “But in many works of Scar Literature, the protagonist suffers all kinds of injuries and misfortunes, enduring extremely tragic experiences—families broken, mothers lost, people left all alone. As for Dream of the Red Chamber, a large portion of the narrative also dwells on Lin Daiyu and others’ miserable fates. Content-wise, there is a clear similarity between the two.”

She finished and looked proudly at the students and professors below, then shot Liu Yimin a sly smile.

“What about in terms of form?” Liu Yimin asked.

“In terms of form…”

With Liu Yimin’s questions coming one after another, Zhang Manling soon found her mouth dry and her words faltering. The classroom grew more crowded, and the rising carbon dioxide made her mind grow muddled and confused as she stood on stage.

Sensing she was nearly finished, Liu Yimin smiled and said, “I think comparing Dream of the Red Chamber to Scar Literature does it a disservice. Scar Literature, in my view, is more like literature of accusation. Its content is a direct denunciation of those years, filled with black-and-white judgments and possessing little literary merit.

Worse still, some of it is written merely to ride a trend, to force sorrow into new words, possessing form without substance. Dream of the Red Chamber, though also a tragic novel, is centered on love and reveals both the beauty and ugliness of human nature. It embodies the beauty and tragedy of humanity, utilizes elements of surrealism, and employs romantic techniques—its artistic value is immense.

Scar Literature is a product of its era, and a fleeting one at that. Yet Dream of the Red Chamber continues to be studied today.”

“And what makes you think Scar Literature won’t endure?” a student from another department stood up at the back of the classroom and challenged him.

Zhang Manling frowned but said nothing, waiting for Liu Yimin’s response—she too was curious.

“A decade’s experience—are we to dwell on it for decades, even centuries? In the scope of our history, that period is but a speck of dust. We have far too much to accomplish. Our task is to move forward, not to keep looking back.

Right now, everyone discusses scars as if we can never move on. Criticism is meant to lighten our load, not to keep piling on burdens. And then there are imagined wounds, or those exaggerated for the sake of fame, or simple venting of personal emotions—I personally think that’s not the right path.

Works without artistic value cannot endure.”

Zhang Manling took up the thread. “I think Liu Yimin is right. I spent five years working in Dehong during the sent-down youth movement. The conditions were harsh—Dehong is historically notorious for its ‘miasma.’ Everyone knows the story in Romance of the Three Kingdoms, when the Chancellor suffered greatly from the miasma there.

But although the environment was tough, the local people treated us well. They helped us grow, taught us how to survive, and some of the sent-down youth even found love there. That experience was deeply important to my life. As university students, we ought to have our feet in the soil. That’s just what you called the beauty of human nature.”

Liu Yimin glanced at Zhang Manling—had he really persuaded her?

“You two may step down,” Professor Wu Zuxiang said as he made his way to the podium.

“Many great works are tragedies; comedies are rare. Tragedy is filled with the beauty and evil of humanity, prompting readers to reflect on human nature and society, and, most importantly, giving them the courage to go on living. But to make everyone sink into sadness should never be the goal!

Yimin spoke well, and Zhang Manling was brave to raise the question. Let’s learn from both of them!”

With Professor Wu’s conclusion, he had affirmed Liu Yimin’s arguments and brought the discussion to an end. The classroom broke into enthusiastic applause under his lead.

“Well done, Yimin!” Liu Zhenyun applauded him.

“The real issue was with her topic!” Liu Yimin replied, though he felt Professor Wu had deliberately cut off further discussion.

After class, Zhang Manling approached Liu Yimin, extending her hand with a smile. “Thank you, Comrade Liu Yimin, for your wonderful speech!”

“Comrade Zhang Manling, you did well yourself.”

The two walked together, followed by Li Xueqin and the others, who whispered among themselves.

Zhang Manling, holding her satchel, said, “I read Lu Xinhua’s Scar and felt it was a bit exaggerated. I’ve lived in the countryside—the locals were kind to me.”

“He didn’t spend long in the countryside before moving into the army,” Liu Yimin said quietly.

“I’m interested in what you said about surrealism. Could you elaborate?” Zhang Manling pressed.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria first; my stomach’s staging a revolution!”

“It’s my fault—you’ve wasted so much of your breath because of me. This meal’s on me!”

“I eat a lot, you know.”

“We’re all comrades; you won’t go hungry.”

At that time, One Hundred Years of Solitude hadn’t yet reached China, and the literary world had yet to study magical realism; otherwise, many would certainly be linking Dream of the Red Chamber to magical realism in their discussions.

Liu Yimin couldn’t really let her pay, but Zhang Manling was persistent. He had no choice but to follow Liu Zhenyun’s example and queue up for pan-fried tofu.

Sure enough, the line for pan-fried tofu was long, and by the time Liu Yimin got his turn, there was only one portion left. Liu Zhenyun, behind him, looked as if his eyes might pop out, fidgeting like someone desperate for the restroom.

For Liu Zhenyun, the greatest distance in the world was to reach the front of the line only to find the pan-fried tofu gone.

“Forget it, I’ll try something else,” Liu Yimin said, putting away his lunch box and turning to another line. Behind him, Liu Zhenyun was so excited he was nearly in tears, his hands trembling with anticipation as he pulled out his ration ticket.

In the end, Liu Yimin got a plate of shredded pork with garlic sauce and plain cabbage.

“Don’t worry. I’m not as rich as you, but I have some money. You won’t eat me out of house and home.”

“I’m not worried about that—just that this meal will have lasting consequences!”

Zhang Manling didn’t understand his meaning. As they stood at the table, they quietly discussed the elements of surrealism in Dream of the Red Chamber.

The main dining hall had tables but no chairs; you either took your food away or ate standing or squatting. For Liu Yimin, it was the most uncomfortable meal he’d ever had, while Zhang Manling ate with great relish beside him.

If they didn’t give him a double ration ticket, he might just have to let his fists do the talking!