The so-called "great hermits live in the city".
That's roughly the feeling.
"Lin Que?"
The sound of a sliding door coming from behind me.
Zhao Zichen leaned out halfway, still holding the book in his hand, looking somewhat awkward.
"What? Finished memorizing it?"
Lin Que didn't turn around and casually stuffed the laptop into his backpack.
"no……"
Zhao Zichen hesitated for a moment, then walked to the balcony railing and looked at the lights in the distance.
"Um... I still want to thank you."
Why thank me?
Lin Que took a mint out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
"I already said I can't stand those pretentious people, it's none of your business. Don't flatter yourself."
Zhao Zichen was taken aback, but he wasn't angry.
He turned his head and, in the dim light of the balcony, carefully examined Lin Que.
"Actually, I've never been able to figure it out."
Zhao Zichen pushed up his glasses.
"You're usually so carefree and lazy, you even copy Wu Di's homework."
Why...why was he able to write that kind of article?
Which one?
"It's 'Fireflies' and this time, 'Reply'."
Zhao Zichen lowered his voice.
"I've read it many times. That struggle in despair, that feeling of... cutting your heart open for others to see, I can't do it."
I only know how to quote, how to pile up, how to... imitate.
Lin Que chewed the candy in his mouth, and a cool sensation filled his oral cavity.
"Old Zhao, do you know what your biggest problem is?"
"What?"
"Your writing is too clean."
Lin Que pointed to the bustling street below.
"You're like a germaphobic cook,"
They insisted on washing the muddy radishes until they looked like white jade before cooking them, and as a result, they lost all their radish flavor.
Literature is not like jewelry in a luxury goods store.
It's that fish-killing knife from the market, still covered in fish scales.
You're always thinking about carvings and plating.
But what readers crave is that raw, unadulterated flavor of blood.
Zhao Zichen was stunned, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the book.
"Of course, I'm not saying that memorizing is useless."
Lin Que stood up and patted the dust off his backside.
"At least when you're arguing, you can use classical allusions to insult others, which makes you seem more cultured."
Go to sleep early. Time waits for no one. Don't wait until you can't even write a fart in the end.
After saying that, he took his computer and went back to his room.
Zhao Zichen stood on the balcony, letting the night wind tousle his hair.
He watched Lin Que's figure disappear behind the door.
He looked down again at the copy of "Guan Zhi of Ancient Prose" in his hand, which had been pinched and marked with fingerprints.
"A fish-killing knife..."
"The savory taste of blood..."
"Time waits for no one..."
Lin Que's words struck his rigid thinking head-on.
He suddenly remembered the mock essay he had just written and discarded.
The entire piece is filled with ornate language and perfectly balanced parallelism.
It looks like a piece of jade, cold and devoid of warmth.
He himself felt it was empty after reading it.
That wasn't what he wanted to express; it was just what he "should" express.
He always thought that literature was a high mountain that needed to be climbed step by step.
It is a temple, and one must be extremely respectful.
But Lin Que told him that literature was like a vegetable market.
It's that knife covered in fish scales, and it's that most primal, fresh taste.
"Time waits for no one..."
Zhao Zichen muttered to himself,
This time, he was no longer appreciating the ancient charm of those four characters.
Rather, it was a burning, anxious sense of urgency.
He turned abruptly, rushed back into his room, and didn't even look at the book "Guan Zhi of Ancient Prose".
Instead, he pulled a brand new sheet of manuscript paper from his schoolbag and spread it on the table.
He gripped the pen tightly, the tip hovering on the paper, trembling slightly.
He didn't know what he would write next; it might just be a pile of garbage.
But he knew that this time, he didn't want to wash that "white jade radish" again.
...
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