Inviting Lin over this time was purely our personal wish, as Chairman Gu and I both felt a strong desire to nurture talent.
I wanted to see him after the last "Relief Cup" event, but I didn't because I was afraid of interfering with his studies.
This is a lucky coincidence; we'll just chat, and I promise to bring the person back to you afterwards.
Shen Qingqiu finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Before getting into the car, Lin Que seemed to remember something.
He glanced back at Shen Qingqiu, who was still standing there, and blinked:
"Teacher, I probably won't be able to write my self-criticism today!"
I watched as the black Audi smoothly merged into the traffic and eventually disappeared into the night.
Shen Qingqiu stood in the cold wind for a long time before finally looking away.
A look of bewilderment, a mixture of amusement and exasperation, appeared on his face.
Inside the car, the atmosphere was not as serious as expected.
Gu Changfeng closed his eyes to rest, his fingers tapping lightly on his knees to keep time.
Liang Wenyu, gazing at the street scene flashing past the window, casually asked:
"Lin, what are your impressions of Nanjing?"
Lin Que nodded: "The Huai River flows gently, the moon is veiled in light gauze, the splendor of the Six Dynasties, and the prosperity of ten miles."
"Compared to the painted boats on the Qinhuai River, I still prefer the lively atmosphere of the alleys in the old city south."
Liang Wenyu was taken aback upon hearing this, then exchanged a smile with Gu Changfeng, who had just opened his eyes.
The car turned onto a quiet road, where the branches of the plane trees on both sides intertwined under the streetlights.
The Jiangsu Provincial Writers Association has arrived.
...
The Jiangsu Provincial Writers Association's office building is located in the Yihe Road Mansion District.
It is an old Western-style house from the Republican era.
Blue bricks and gray tiles, shaded by sycamore trees.
In the darkness of night, it was so quiet that only the sound of falling leaves could be heard.
It was like two different worlds compared to the noisy forum at Zijin Villa just a few hours earlier.
Lin Que followed behind Gu Changfeng and Liang Wenyu, stepping onto the thick wooden floor and entering a large study filled with a scholarly atmosphere.
Several calligraphy and paintings hung on the wall, their strokes vigorous and powerful.
The bookshelves were piled high with books, some of which had worn-out spines that were clearly frequently read.
The air was filled with a faint scent of ink and aged wood.
"Please sit wherever you like."
Gu Changfeng took off his coat and hung it on the hanger.
Just like an ordinary old man next door, he personally walked to the tea table to boil water and rinse the cups.
Lin Que didn't stand on ceremony and chose a round-backed chair to sit down.
This chair is hard, but you have to keep your back straight.
It makes people unconsciously straighten their posture.
Liang Wenyu sat opposite him, adjusted his glasses, and looked at Lin Que with a gentle gaze:
"Lin Que, we invited you over so late. I wonder if you're wondering what our intentions are?"
Lin Que accepted the teacup from Gu Changfeng with both hands, took a light sniff of the tea aroma, and smiled:
"It's probably because I overturned Editor-in-Chief Fang's desk on stage today."
The two elders wanted to see just how much courage this child who overturned the table had.
"Ha ha ha ha!"
Gu Changfeng laughed and looked at Liang Wenyu.
"See, I told you he was insightful. This kid is as clear-headed as a mirror."
Liang Wenyu also smiled:
"We heard what you said at the meeting."
Fang Zhenyun has his own stance, but the literary world cannot have only one voice.
Sometimes, a little noise is needed to wake a drowsy person.
"But the two of us old men came specifically to wait for you, actually because of a sentence you'll say at the meeting."
Lin Que's eyes flickered slightly:
Which sentence?
"You said that the real mainstream is people."
Gu Changfeng's smile faded, and his eyes became deep.
"They are living, breathing people who feel pain, cry, and bleed."
The old man gently stroked the inside of the purple clay teapot with his fingers and sighed.
"This is easier said than done."
The literary scene today is too superficial.
It's either sentimental, melodramatic writing or fast-food writing that purely seeks sensory stimulation.
Very few people are truly willing to stoop down and listen to the joys and sorrows of life.
"Lin Que, I've read your article, 'The Man Waiting to Die'."
I also read the script of your recitation of "Coco" at school.
Gu Changfeng raised his head, his gaze sharp and fixed on Lin Que's eyes.
"Your writing has a sense of vicissitude that doesn't belong to someone your age."
It's like you've endured all the hardships and bitterness of someone else's entire life in your heart.
Lin Que, we are very curious.
Where did you get all this weathered look on you?
...
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