"Oh? Tell me more."
Fang Zhenyun's eyes lit up.
"The student just said that literature is a blueprint, and you said that literature is about planting flowers. I wrote both down in my notebook."
Lin Que pointed to his empty pockets, looking quite serious.
"I think that when we students write, we really shouldn't be too...too much."
"Too which one?"
Fang Zhenyun patiently guided him.
"It's so realistic."
Lin Que sighed, looking annoyed.
For example, my award-winning essay
Looking back now, I realize how narrow-minded I was, and how full of negative energy I was.
I shouldn't have written about death and despair.
I should focus on the deep bond between doctors and patients, and on the miracles of life fighting against disease.
It would be best to add a touch of poetic imagination, such as all the patients holding hands.
Sing aloud in the sunshine, praising the new life.
Someone in the audience frowned.
Fang Zhenyun's brow twitched violently.
"Student Lin."
Fang Zhenyun interrupted him with a stern face and a warning look in his eyes.
"Literature needs imagination, but it is not nonsense."
This illogical exaggeration is blasphemous…
"How can this be considered nonsense?"
Lin Que didn't give him a chance to finish speaking, his face showing a look of shock as if to say, "Why don't you believe me?"
"Teacher Fang, isn't this what you taught us?"
Wrap the wound with gauze, and let flowers bloom!
I thought about it, and the best way is simply to keep the wound from being seen by everyone, right?
Zhao Zichen suddenly looked up, staring at Lin Que in horror.
Dude, isn't your sarcasm a little too obvious?
But Lin Que didn't give him a chance to ask a question and continued:
"And that dream weaver, who said that hell is never empty."
I think he has a dark side.
The world is so wonderful, where is there any hell?
All we need to do is close our eyes and plug our ears.
Ignore those unfinished buildings, ignore those cries for help.
Wouldn't the whole world then be paradise?
A commotion began to break out in the meeting room.
The veteran writers, who had been nodding just moments before, now looked at each other in bewilderment.
Is this child agreeing or swearing?
Fang Zhenyun's fingers, which were holding the microphone, paused slightly.
The curve of his lips still maintained that kind of benevolent habit, but a hint of doubt flashed in his eyes.
He subconsciously looked at Lin Que.
Trying to find the panic of a "slip of the tongue" on that young face, I only saw a calm and amused expression.
His smile finally crumbled little by little on his face, as if succumbing to gravity.
"Um... Lin."
Fang Zhenyun tried to interrupt.
"This statement is extreme; we are not trying to bury our heads in the sand..."
"How is this burying your head in the sand? This is artistic embellishment in literature!"
He took a step forward and stood at the very center of the spotlight.
That submissive attitude suddenly disappeared.
He was still wearing that somewhat outdated school uniform, but his back was ramrod straight.
The laziness in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by...
It is a chilling, cold sharpness.
"So I am especially grateful to Teacher Fang."
Lin Que, holding the microphone, bowed deeply to Fang Zhenyun.
This bow was both perfectly executed and ironically ironic.
"You made me realize that so-called avant-garde literature is not about writing something completely new."
Instead, we need to learn a new approach to embellish those old sores.
"You want us to be like flowers in a greenhouse, singing beautiful songs."
You want literature to be a beautiful fig leaf, covering all suffering?
Then I'll tell everyone:
Look, how beautiful!
The entire room fell silent.
It was even more deathly silent than when the recording was played earlier.
Fang Zhenyun's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red. He abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly.
"What kind of attitude is this?!"
This is a literary forum, not a place for you to run wild!
"I didn't cause any trouble."
Lin Que straightened up, a smile on his face.
"I am simply putting your teachings into practice."
He pointed at Zhao Zichen, and then at the students who had spoken earlier.
"We are students, and we haven't learned how to lie so beautifully and with such 'aesthetic restraint' yet."
We can only see what's in front of us. Some people starve to death, some die of disease, and some struggle in despair.
Are you asking us to write about the deep bond between doctors and patients, to portray these as miracles of life?
Lin Que shook his head, his voice as soft as a sigh.
But the sound from the speakers struck everyone's hearts.
"I'm sorry, Professor Fang. I can't learn this kind of innovative approach."
I don't think this is literature.
This is called fraud!
Fang Zhenyun's face was so gloomy it could drip water.
He took a deep breath, as if suppressing immense anger.
He raised the microphone again, his voice carrying a chilling "concern".
"It seems that Lin is a bit agitated today, and his thoughts have gone astray."
"We shouldn't put too much pressure on him just because of an award-winning essay."
To protect our young geniuses, let's stop here for today.
"Staff, please take Lin to the rest room to calm down."
Several security guards maintaining order heard the shouts and hesitantly walked over.
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