Chapter 92: The Master of Literature

Cao Xiuwen adjusted his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and, rather clumsily, manipulated the mouse to look over a short poem sent by a student.

“Who wrote this? Quite fascinating!” he mused.

As a senior professor in the Department of Chinese Language at Fudan University, Cao Xiuwen’s literary accomplishments were considerable. Nearing sixty, he was a modernist at heart—skilled with computers, willing to surf the internet, and familiar with popular trends.

The anonymous poem before him, lighthearted and witty, narrated a story everyone knew. Though its imagery was drawn from the classic Journey to the West, every line revealed Sun Wukong’s longing for a simple, pure life, for mere existence.

“What a splendid Mountain of Flowers and Fruit! Facing the Eastern Sea, spring blossoms everywhere,” Cao Xiuwen exclaimed in admiration. The folk truly hid talents; even a casual poem could be so apt. The Sun Wukong who had rebelled against Heaven five hundred years ago, untamed and proud, was here portrayed as a sensitive, optimistic soul.

There was an endearing contrast, and Cao Xiuwen read the poem over and again, then slowly tapped out a message on his keyboard, asking Xie Yutong, “Who wrote this? Is there more?”

Xie Yutong hadn’t expected her usually busy advisor to reply so quickly. She was browsing the comments beneath Zhang Chu’s latest post on Weibo.

Upon receiving Cao Xiuwen’s email, she promptly replied, “It was written by Zhang Chu, this year’s top scorer in Jiangdong Province’s college entrance exam. He also wrote ‘The Death of Red Hare.’ There doesn’t seem to be a follow-up yet; it was just posted on Weibo.”

“So that’s it,” Cao Xiuwen sighed, a little disappointed. The poem used cheerful words and emotions to mask Sun Wukong’s bondage to the pilgrimage, all ideals the monkey yearned for.

Considering the various dark interpretations people have given Journey to the West, this poem seemed like a search for light amidst darkness. Cao Xiuwen pondered and forwarded it to his old friends.

...

While WeChat had taken over the world, Cao Xiuwen’s circle of old friends still lingered in the era of QQ. When Zhang Chu’s anonymous poem appeared in their group, the elderly gentlemen, sleepless, immediately found a topic to discuss.

The inconspicuous QQ group had only thirty-odd members. Anyone familiar with Chinese literature would feel a sense of reverence upon seeing their names.

Each name was illustrious; a quick search would reveal works that could easily overwhelm the uninitiated.

“Hey, Old Cao. Since when did you write such amusing stuff?”

At nine in the evening, Ma Qiwei hadn’t gone to bed—it seemed the older he got, the less he slept. Having quickly read what Cao Xiuwen sent, he immediately said, “Interested in publishing this in our Poetry Journal?”

Ma Qiwei differed from Cao Xiuwen; he used a handwriting tablet. Sometimes his calligraphy was so flamboyant the device couldn’t recognize it, so he had to stick to standard script. Still, it was faster than typing, and the older generation weren’t very adept with electronics.

“Qiwei, this isn’t mine,” Cao Xiuwen hurried to explain. He was the last person to claim another’s work as his own—a true man of letters.

Ma Qiwei’s credentials were impressive; a prose writer who’d become editor-in-chief of Poetry Journal, now on the verge of retirement.

As he prepared to send his message, another old friend, Shi Chengye, spoke up first, “So who wrote this poem?”

“Guess,” Cao Xiuwen teased, wanting his old friends to speculate.

Ma Qiwei ran through the familiar names in his mind. “This lyric poem is witty and humorous, but there’s solid technique beneath. Did Lao Hong write it? He’s quite childlike—might pen such words.”

“Or perhaps Ye Wenlun. That old fox loves pretending to be a newcomer; last time he nearly fooled me with a new pen name, if he hadn’t forgotten to change his submission email.”

“I think it’s more like Tao Bo; he favors this sort of imagery.”

“Why can’t it be a newcomer?” someone interjected. “Our minds are set in their ways—who’d think to use Sun Wukong from Journey to the West as inspiration?”

Name after name came up, but Cao Xiuwen denied them all.

From literary giants to rising stars, and the backbone of today’s poetry scene, they guessed everyone.

Finally, Ma Qiwei admitted defeat. “Old Cao, just tell us. I want to invite the author to publish in our Poetry Journal.”

“Save your breath. Poetry Journal is too conservative. This avant-garde poem belongs in our Poetry Rivers. We’re the stronghold of modern poetry,” Chen Bo countered.

There were plenty of magazine editors in the group, but these two were longtime rivals, always at odds.

“Who says Poetry Journal is conservative? More than half the acclaimed contemporary poems debuted here!” Ma Qiwei genuinely liked the little poem; though it seemed a bit too popular, that wasn’t necessarily a flaw—sometimes it was a virtue.

Only now did Cao Xiuwen answer, “I only know it was written by Zhang Chu, Jiangdong’s top exam scorer—the bold one who wrote ‘The Death of Red Hare’ during the college entrance exam. How you contact him is up to you.”

“What? ‘The Death of Red Hare’ was his too?”

“See? I told you, it’s the young generation. Only youngsters have such lively minds, crafting such delightful pieces.”

“My grandson is a big fan—always glued to his phone reading crime novels.”

“Who is this, why does everyone know him?”

“It’s surprising. That child’s ‘The Death of Red Hare’ was average in content but novel in form. Mainly, it became legendary for being written on the spot during the exam. He went on to write detective stories, but now seems to be returning to his roots.”

“Hahaha, Chen Bo, give it a rest. I just checked—Zhang Chu has been admitted to Yanjing University. I’m a guest professor in the Chinese department there; I’ll ask the admissions office for his contact!”

“That’s just luck. He may not want to publish in Poetry Journal, don’t threaten him. If he refuses, you won’t let him pass.”

The old gentlemen typed with remarkable speed; conversation flowed unhindered.

Far away in an air-conditioned room in Jiangcheng, Zhang Chu sneezed several times, completely unaware of the lively discussion about him among these elders.