184: Adults are all strange

Mid-June, the cicadas in Jiangcheng chirped, making people restless.

In the data center of Xinchao Magazine Agency, the atmosphere was even more anxious than the sun outside.

Wang De'an stared at the real-time sales bar chart on the big screen.

The red line representing “the little prince” did not soar as expected.

Instead, it lay at the bottom, half-dead, like a patient with a flatlining electrocardiogram.

“Editor-in-Chief, first-day sales are out.”

The data analyst’s hand trembled as he handed over the report:

“Roughly... only one-tenth of the first-day sales of “the ferryman”.”

Wang De'an took the report, glanced at it, and his hand, which had been reaching for a cigarette pack, froze in mid-air.

Terrible.

Too terrible.

This was an S+ level project, backed by the golden reputation of “Jian Shen,” with an initial print run of two million copies.

Now, feedback from major bookstores was coming in:

This book simply wasn't selling.

The reason was simple: awkward positioning.

Jiangcheng Xinhua Bookstore.

The most prominent bestseller display still featured “the ferryman” and various educational supplements.

And that thin book, with a strange planet and a boy on its cover, “the little prince,”

was naturally placed by the staff in the “Children’s Books section.”

Occasionally, parents with children would pass by, pick it up, and flip through a couple of pages.

“Mommy, this drawing is so ugly,”

the child said dismissively, pointing at the famous “hat drawing.”

“What is this drawing? A hat?”

The parent also frowned, glanced at the price, then at the even somewhat crude illustrations, and casually threw it back:

“Dozens of yuan for a doodle, not worth it. Come on, Mommy will buy you LEGOs.”

While offline sales were cold, online, there was a storm of criticism.

Ever since “the ferryman” achieved legendary status, Jian Shen’s readership had developed a refined taste.

They expected profound literature of grand life-and-death themes and human redemption, but what did they get?

A fairy tale.

And a fairy tale with illustrations that looked like simple stick figures.

The book review section exploded.

“Is this the new work from the Moyun Award’s best author? I think he’s run out of talent!”

“What is this drawing? A hat? My three-year-old nephew draws better than this.”

...Of course, loyal fans were constantly defending it:

“Teacher Jian Shen must have a deeper meaning! You superficial people don’t understand, so don’t spout nonsense!”

But this voice was quickly drowned out by overwhelming mockery.

Even marketing accounts began to stir up trouble with sensational headlines:

“From the ferryman to Kindergarten: Jian Shen’s Seven Days of Falling from Grace”...SOHO Future City.

The air conditioning was running high.

Lin Que held a can of iced cola in one hand and scrolled through the offensive reviews with the other.

“Cashing in on a bad product,” “touching artwork,” “not even fit for coaxing children”...the insults were harsh.

Lin Que’s face showed no emotion; he even twitched the corner of his mouth when he saw a comment saying, “This snake looks like an earthworm.”

His phone vibrated on the desk—Wang De'an’s call.

He didn’t need to answer to know that the Editor-in-Chief was probably anxious enough to hang himself.

Lin Que hung up and sent a WeChat message: [Don’t worry.]

A book isn’t fast food; it’s red wine.

It needs to breathe...The turning point appeared late on Wednesday night.

At 2 AM, when adults shed their masks and were at their most vulnerable emotionally.

A long article suddenly went viral on Moments, then spread like a virus to Microblogging platform and forums.

The article’s title was long but poignant:

“If You Cried While Reading This, It Means You Are No Longer Young.”

The author was certified as an executive at a famous investment bank.

His Moments usually consisted of check-ins for overtime at 3 AM and dense K-line charts,

making him seem like an emotionless money-making machine.

But tonight, he lost his composure.

[Tonight, I was reading a bedtime story to my five-year-old daughter and casually picked up “the little prince,” which had been heavily criticized online. My daughter fell asleep listening, but I couldn’t stop reading.]

[When I read about the lamplighter, I suddenly didn’t want to read it to my daughter anymore.

That planet was so small, turning once a minute, and he kept lighting and extinguishing the lamp.

He didn’t rest for a second, because a regulation was a regulation.]

[Watching my sleeping daughter, I suddenly felt like that lamplighter.

Every day in the glass cubicles of the CBD, watching the market rise and fall,

replying to endless emails, busy like a spinning top for so-called “serious business.”]

[I hid in the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and cried for half an hour looking at that crude illustration.

That wasn’t a hat; it was a snake that swallowed an elephant.

That was our imagination swallowed by life, our Planet B612 that we can never return to.]

[This isn’t written for children. This

is an unfinished fairy tale for us adults who have become “strange adults.”]

This article struck hard into the seemingly calm world of adults.

Immediately after,

#TheLittlePrinceIsNotAFairyTale#,

and #ThatIsNotAHatItIsASnakeThatSwallowedAnElephant#, these two hashtags incredibly quickly surged to the top of the trending topics.

Those who had been criticizing “crude artwork” suddenly fell silent.

They reopened the book and stared at the illustration.

Some saw a snake; some saw a hat.

Seeing a mountain as a mountain, seeing a mountain not as a mountain.

Overnight, the tide turned...Saturday, Jiangcheng Xinhua Bookstore.

The store manager watched the surveillance footage, falling into deep self-doubt.

The “Children’s Books section,” which should have been noisy with children, was eerily quiet today.

No children.

Instead, there was a group of adults, dressed in suits, shirts, and some even wearing work badges.

They didn’t mind the dirt; some sat directly on the floor,

others leaned against the bookshelves, clutching that thin copy of “the little prince.”

An oppressive silence permeated the air.

A man in his early thirties, his tie loosened and hanging around his neck,

clutched the book tightly, his eyes red like a rabbit’s.

Beside him, a five or six-year-old boy was tugging at his pants.

“Daddy, why did the fox want the little prince to tame it?”

the little boy asked innocently.

“What does ‘tame’ mean? Is it like raising a doggy?”

The man opened his mouth, his voice choked, unable to speak for a long time.

After a long while, he finally knelt down, stroked his son’s head, and said in a hoarse voice:

“Taming... means I don’t know it, and it doesn’t know me.

But if we become friends and play together every day, it will be the one and only little fox in the world to me, and I won’t be able to leave it.”

“Then why did the little prince leave the rose in the end?”

the boy asked again.

“The rose is so beautiful; didn’t he like it anymore?”

The man lowered his head, and a tear splashed onto the floor.

“Because he was too young then and didn’t know how to love her.”

The man looked up at the not-so-exquisitely drawn rose on the bookshelf,

as if seeing through the paper the person he had lost years ago.

“Adults are all strange.”

The man wiped his eyes and gave a bitter smile to his son.

“They always wait until they’ve lost something to learn how to love.”

Similar scenes unfolded in bookstores across the country.

That fairy tale book, once discarded in a corner, became a refuge for adults...In the second week, the sales curve of “the little prince” shot up in a steep straight line.

Sold out.

Sold out nationwide.

The printing presses were smoking from overuse, and Wang De'an’s voice was also hoarse with excitement.

On the phone, Wang De'an was incoherent:

“Now we’re not pushing the book; readers are forcing us to print it!

The boss of a large enterprise directly ordered six thousand copies, saying they were for employees as a psychological therapy manual!”

“A fairy tale that makes all adults bow their heads...”

Wang De'an sighed emotionally.

“You were right from the start; only the world is complicated.”

After hanging up, Lin Que stretched.

This battle was won.

And it was a more beautiful victory than imagined.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Just as “the little prince” was gently cutting through adults’ tears, on the other end of the internet,

Hell Dream Weaver’s final installment of “soul ferry” continued to generate buzz.

Discussions about Zhao Li’s ending showed no signs of cooling down.

On the forum, a post was highlighted.

[OP: Brothers, I discovered something.

These two recent books, “the little prince” and “soul ferry,” are like ice and fire!]

[First Floor: Indeed. One is “only with the heart can one see rightly,” warm and healing. The other is “I want you to live well,” poignant to the bone.

Has the literary world of June been completely dominated by these two masters?]

[Second Floor: But why do I feel these two books have a similar artistic approach?

Look, Zhao Li sold his soul for the zither, and the little prince returned to his planet for the rose.

This is different paths leading to the same destination!]

[Third Floor: The person above hit the nail on the head. Dream Weaver, this old scoundrel, understands philosophy.

Whether it was the previous “Ghost Market” satirizing the pursuit of fame and fortune, or Zhao Li’s “peerless elegance” this time,

this guy is a philosopher at heart! A dark philosopher!]

[Fourth Floor: Agreed! Dream Weaver uses ghost stories to tell human truths, and Jian Shen uses fairy tales to tell the truth.

If these two could collaborate, the scene would be too beautiful for me to imagine.]

Lin Que looked at the comments on the screen and couldn’t help but laugh out loud...