Chapter 49: The Editorial Department of Shanghai Literature Magazine

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After a rain, the sky and the ground traded identities. Looking up, the ten-thousand-li expanse was dim; stepping downward, the galaxy shone brilliantly.

It had been raining for two days. Lin Jun-sheng sat by a kerosene lamp, writing poetry. The "Lihua-style" poetry had not yet appeared in this era. Poet Zhao Lihua’s work, *A Person Comes to Tennessee*:

[There is no doubt that the pie I make is the most delicious in the entire world.]

Later generations gave this kind of colloquial, doggerel-like verse she wrote a punning nickname: "Lihua-style" poetry.

Some people even carried on and glorified this "Lihua-style" poetry. A few poems by Jia Qianqian sparked massive discussions across the internet. What made it even more sigh-inducing was that Jia Qianqian was also the Vice Chairman of the Writers Association.

[When I am lonely, a cucumber is undoubtedly the best thing in the whole world!]

[We went to pee together, peed out a line, peed out a pit!]

[In the morning, the colleagues ate together. One colleague picked her nose in public, and she shouted, "Don't wipe it!" Another colleague upon seeing this, rushed forward, grabbed that colleague's finger, and while licking it, said: So fragrant! Your booger.]

Lin Jun-sheng could not comprehend how anyone could write poetry this atrocious and defend it by claiming that ordinary people could also write poetry this way. Could this be considered writing that "catches on by sinking to the bottom"? Even ordinary people would turn their noses up at it.

Thinking of Hai Zi’s poems, how breathtaking that artistic conception was.

[Starting tomorrow, be a happy person. Feed horses, chop firewood, travel the world. Starting tomorrow, care about grain and vegetables. I have a house, facing the sea, with spring flowers blossoming. Starting tomorrow, write to every loved one. Tell them of my happiness. That happy lightning told it to me. I will tell it to every person. Give every river and every mountain a warm name. Stranger, I bless you too. May you have a brilliant future.

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May you have lovers finally united in marriage. May you attain happiness in this mortal world. I only wish to face the sea, with spring flowers blossoming.]

Perhaps this was simply the difference between human beings.

At this moment, Lin Jun-sheng was copying Hai Zi’s work. He just didn't copy this specific poem directly; he would release it only after gaining some fame, so as to truly set off its brilliance.

Hai Zi wrote this poem on January 13, 1989, and committed suicide by lying across the railway tracks in March of the same year. The time span between them was a mere two months and some change.

Lin Jun-sheng could not help but sigh.

...

Meanwhile, far away from that small village in the bustling metropolis of Shanghai, within the historic buildings of Julu Road in the Jing'an District, there was an open space known as the "Eros Garden."

Here, lush greenery flourished, floral fragrance filled the air, and a statue of Eros stood right in the middle.

Wang Wei-ye stood alone at the edge of the Eros Garden. He was one of the chief editors of *Shanghai Literature*. Holding a burning cigarette between his fingers, his gaze was profound and complex amidst the swirling smoke.

During the discussion meeting just moments ago, a fierce argument had erupted between him and another chief editor regarding the selection of the best work for the national writing contest.

Deep within Wang Wei-ye's heart lay a steadfast conviction: he was determined to back the author [Rainy Night Carries a Knife Without an Umbrella] and their work, *The Tree King*.

This author possessed a unique literary style and profound emotional depth. The author's previous work, *The Chess King*, had been brought to light and received an extraordinary response precisely thanks to Wang Wei-ye's discerning eye. Many editors also called it a masterpiece, and several readers had sent letters saying it was exceptionally well-written.

Wang Wei-ye had even gone so far as to defy conventional opinions, personally approaching the editor-in-chief to secure a long-form commission rate of twenty yuan per thousand characters for [Rainy Night Carries a Knife Without an Umbrella]. At the time, this was an immense encouragement and affirmation for a newcomer author.

However, this selection process was not proving as smooth as Wang Wei-ye had imagined. Although *The Tree King* successfully made it into the final list of ten works, in the eyes of the other chief editors, this piece did not seem prominent enough to stand out. Some felt other works possessed more novelty, while others thought the style of *The Tree King* was overly heavy and failed to align with current readers' tastes.

This rural writer could bring the characters in his novel leaping off the page with just a few sparse strokes, making them remarkably transparent. Wang Wei-ye admired him immensely, believing that in the coming years, this author would accomplish great things in the literary world.

Listening to the arguments of those chief editors just now, an inexplicable irritation welled up in his heart. In his view, among these ten works, only *The Tree King* deserved to be called a true masterpiece. It was not merely a novel, but a canvas depicting human nature and exploring the meaning of life. The other works, while each possessing their own merits, appeared rather mediocre by comparison.

"If Jia Pingwa had submitted a manuscript, I’d have nothing to say about him taking first place in the contest," Wang Wei-ye muttered to himself, though he immediately shook his head. "Yet if *The Tree King* loses among these works, it will be a burial of talent."

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Literary masters like Jia Pingwa naturally could not be matched by these newborn writers. Yet among this batch of emerging writers, apart from [Rainy Night Carries a Knife Without an Umbrella], he truly had not seen a second person capable of writing a work like *The Tree King*.

At this thought, Wang Wei-ye took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled, as if trying to expel the depression from his heart along with the smoke. He glanced at the Shanghai-brand watch on his wrist; the time had quietly slipped to ten o'clock.

The meeting was not yet over—this was merely a mid-session break. Wang Wei-ye would have to return and continue debating fiercely with the other chief editors to secure the honor that *The Tree King* rightfully deserved.

Inside the editorial office, a vibrant and bustling scene unfolded. As a literary magazine enjoying immense prestige both in Shanghai and across the nation, *Shanghai Literature* gathered countless editors and creators who held an infinite passion and persistent pursuit of literature.

They were each busy, yet tightly connected. The space of the editorial office was cleverly divided into multiple areas, each bearing different functions and missions.

Beside the neat rows of desks, editors buried themselves in mountains of manuscripts. Their gazes were focused and sharp, as if able to pierce the surface of the words and reach the core of the works. Their pen tips danced swiftly across the paper, at times sketching vivid scenes, at times portraying lifelike characters. Reviewing and revising—they approached every single manuscript with meticulous care, striving to present the most flawless works to the readers.

The review editors and chief editors sat around the circular table in the conference room, wearing serious expressions with profound and resolute gazes. In their hands rested the future and direction of the magazine. They meticulously planned the content of the next issue, from cover design to column arrangements, from the selection of works to layout composition; every single detail was repeatedly scrutinized and refined. Their goal was singular: to present readers with a more splendid and profound edition of *Shanghai Literature*.

*Shanghai Literature* was more than just a magazine; it was a literary palace, a stage dreamed of by countless literary enthusiasts. Here, one could witness the emergence of cutting-edge writers and appreciate the profound foundational skills of veteran authors. It embraced everything, possessing both the depth and weight of serious literature alongside the ease and amusement of popular literature.

The manuscript review process of *Shanghai Literature*, while inheriting the industry-standard "three-read, three-proof" system, broke conventions by uniquely adding a special "one-discussion" session. This innovative move undoubtedly built a much stronger defense line for the magazine's quality.

On this fertile literary soil, every manuscript had to endure the screening of initial review, the carving of secondary review, and the tempering of final review, much like a piece of raw jade gradually revealing its luster through layers of polishing. However, even standing out through these three trials did not guarantee victory or stepping into the inner sanctum of *Shanghai Literature*. For there remained that decisive "one-discussion" stage, acting like a strict yet impartial gatekeeper, conducting the final examination and judgment of the manuscript.

The path of literature was both long and arduous, and truly great works were rarer than phoenix feathers and unicorn horns.

Standing in such an environment, watching those busy figures, a strong sense of pride welled up within Wang Wei-ye's heart.

"Old Wang, the meeting's starting, hurry up."

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