323: Chapter 323 A Drop of Water Falls into the Sea

The old critic stood up straight, his slightly worn zhongshan suit looking somewhat out of place under the lights.

In the Lingnan literary world, this elder was a famously tough character.

He took no official subsidies and didn't care for the whims of any publishing house; throughout his life, he only recognized the writing, not the person.

Inviting him here today was originally intended to add some academic weight to the event; no one expected him to open fire directly during the interaction segment.

The elder didn't huff or puff, nor did he display any air of acting on his seniority.

He merely scrutinized the few teenagers on stage with an academic gaze that was almost clinical.

"Youth literature today has a very hot market. You children are also being held in very high regard.

The media calls you geniuses, and the Writers Association treats you as the hope of the future."

The elder spoke, his voice raspy yet extremely piercing.

He tapped the table in front of him, pointing straight to the core.

"But I have read your previous works. What I see are flowery words, clever rhetoric, and that 'forcing oneself to speak of sorrow' typical of adolescence.

Stripping away these opportunistic shells, what remains of the core of your writing?"

The old critic's gaze swept across the book-signing table, his tone carrying unconcealed skepticism.

"Regarding your works for the grand finals, I want to know if you truly possess the ability to carry the pain points of reality and the depth of the era?

Or rather, is the so-called pain and struggle you write about in your books..."

"...actually an analysis of reality, or just an illusion created to move yourselves?"

These words were incredibly sharp; without a single vulgarity, they directly tore away the thinnest veil of youth literature.

The temperature of the second-floor venue seemed to drop to freezing point.

Several official media reporters in the front row immediately perked up, quickly picking up their cameras to aim at the stage.

This kind of head-on clash between the older generation of traditional literati and the new generation of authors was absolutely excellent news material.

The students on stage were dazed by the impact.

They were used to flowers and applause, used to being praised as geniuses; they had never experienced this kind of academic interrogation that went straight for the soul.

A few younger girls had already lowered their heads uneasily, their fingers tightly interlaced.

Chen Jiahao tugged irritably at his tie.

He wanted to retort, but found that his book, "the madhouse within the high walls," was indeed biased toward unrestrained imagination.

Faced with this questioning of "realistic depth," he simply couldn't find a suitable entry point to fight back for a moment.

Just as the entire venue fell into a dead silence and even the host didn't know how to respond...

...a calloused hand steadily picked up the microphone on the table.

Wei Yiming stood up.

This farm boy from the mountains of Guangxi Province did not shrink back.

He wore a faded white T-shirt with slightly frayed cuffs.

He met the old critic's sharp gaze and gritted his teeth.

"Hello, teacher."

Wei Yiming spoke, his voice a bit dry, but his pronunciation was very deliberate.

"I am Wei Yiming, from Guangxi Province."

Though his voice was firm, his hand holding the microphone tightened unconsciously.

"I don't know how you understand so-called 'moaning without being ill,' but..."

Wei Yiming didn't preach; instead, he cut directly into his own real experiences.

"I was born in a small mountain village in Guangxi Province. When I was three years old, my parents came to Guang City to work. They only come back once a year and can only stay for a few days before they have to leave."

Wei Yiming's voice echoed in the empty second floor.

"The confusion of left-behind children written in the book—I didn't make that up.

That sense of strangeness where you don't know whether to call them 'Dad' or 'Uncle' over the phone line, that family fragmentation caused by poverty—those are real pains I have personally experienced."

He looked at the elder below the stage, his eyes slightly red, his tone incredibly sincere.

"We young people indeed don't have as much experience as the older generation, but our pain is real.

I wrote this flesh and blood into the book because I wanted to prove that the writing of young people can also take root in the soil, that it also has flesh and blood!"

This response was very powerful.

No flowery words, only the most rustic sincerity.

Several reporters below the stage stopped writing, slightly moved.

Even the Vice Chairman of the Writers Association, who was sweating with anxiety on the side, secretly breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that this child had managed to hold the ground.

At least on an emotional level, Wei Yiming had won back a point.

The old critic listened quietly until he finished.

He looked at the dark-skinned boy with the resilient gaze on stage and nodded slightly.

"Your attitude is very sincere." The elder's tone softened slightly, giving his affirmation.

"I can feel the genuine emotion behind you."

Wei Yiming's tense nerves relaxed slightly, and he was just about to sit down.

However, the old critic's words were not over; following Wei Yiming's answer, he threw out an even deeper follow-up question.

"But, child." The elder's gaze was like a torch, hitting the nail on the head.

"Sincerity of emotion has never represented the depth of literature."

He pointed to the book "heavy mountains" in front of Wei Yiming.

"You wrote about being left behind, you wrote about poverty, you wrote about personal suffering.

But when you try to use this personal suffering to deconstruct the structural problems of the entire society, is your perspective grand enough?"

The old critic's voice rose a few notches, carrying an unquestionable academic pressure.

"Literature is not simply airing grievances. Can you distinguish whether you are recording suffering or unconsciously consuming it?

Can your literary structure support such heavy sociological themes?

Without a grand historical perspective as support, personal tears before the wheels of the era are but a drop of water falling into the sea—meaningless!"

These words were like a heavy mountain, crashing directly onto the thin experience of all the teenagers.

There was no condescending abuse,

but with the coldest literary yardstick, he completely negated the capacity for empathy they took pride in.

Wei Yiming was stunned.

He was just a seventeen-year-old high school student who had written "heavy mountains" based on instinct and life experience.

He didn't understand what "societal structural problems" were, much less a "grand historical perspective."

His dark face quickly flushed crimson.

His lips twitched a few times, but he couldn't squeeze out a single word.

His fingers holding the microphone trembled uncontrollably, and his mind went blank.

This level of academic interrogation was completely beyond the cognitive scope of a high school student.

Not only Wei Yiming, but the other students on stage, who were already nervous, looked at each other in dismay.

Fine beads of sweat had already appeared on some foreheads; they lowered their heads one after another, simply not daring to meet the old critic's eyes.

No one knew how to answer.

The atmosphere on the scene fell into a suffocating stagnation and embarrassment.

The more deathly silent the second floor was, the more piercing the sounds of the frenzied buying spree from the first floor became.

"Are there any more of Jian Shen's books? Give me two!"

"When can we check out at the register!"

That clamor, which seemed ready to lift the roof, penetrated up through the floorboards like a loud slap, mercilessly striking the faces of these teenagers on stage.

Seeing that the situation was about to spiral completely out of control, the Vice Chairman of the Yue Province Writers Association could no longer maintain the smile on his face.

This was an official-led four-city debut event.

If this group of top national talents were criticized into silence on the spot by an old pedant, who knows how tomorrow's newspapers would mock the official judgment.

The Vice Chairman quickly grabbed a microphone and stood up to intervene.

"Oh, Elder Chen, your requirements are far too harsh."

The Vice Chairman spoke with a chuckle, trying to smooth things over with his official status.

"The children are only seventeen or eighteen, and they are still growing; their experience and knowledge reserves are limited.

It's already rare for them to have this heart for reality; we should give the young people more tolerance."

The old critic frowned slightly.

He was clearly somewhat dissatisfied with the Vice Chairman's official-sounding rhetoric.

Literature is literature; what kind of shield is age?

But he was, after all, a man of letters who followed the rules.

The Writers Association had set the stage today; he couldn't completely deny the Vice Chairman's face.

The elder looked at the uneasy teenagers on stage, who kept their heads down and didn't dare look at him, and a flash of disappointment crossed his eyes.

He sighed.

"Fine then."

The old critic reached out to straighten the hem of his worn zhongshan suit.

He prepared to sit back in his chair, no longer making things difficult for these children who couldn't even hold a conversation.

The reporters below also put away their recording pens, feeling that this small disturbance was about to end with the dejected exit of the younger generation.

The Vice Chairman breathed a long sigh of relief and prepared to have the host quickly move to the next segment.

Everyone thought the matter ended there.

Sitting next to Wei Yiming, Chen Jiahao had been thinking about something since a moment ago, his palms constantly rubbing against his pants.

He admitted the old pedant was right; this kind of sociological-level dimensionality reduction strike was indeed something their group of high schoolers couldn't handle.

But at that very moment when the Vice Chairman was smoothing things over, the old pedant was sighing and preparing to sit down, and the whole venue was certain the younger generation had lost...

*Screeech—*

The piercing sound of a chair scraping suddenly rang out in the quiet second-floor venue.

Chen Jiahao, the usually straightforward, boisterous, and even somewhat cynical rich second generation, suddenly grabbed the microphone on the table and stood straight up.

This abrupt move of his gave everyone in the venue a start.

Wei Yiming turned to look at him in astonishment.

The reporters below immediately raised their cameras again.

The Vice Chairman's heart, which had just been set down, instantly leaped into his throat again.

He frantically signaled to Chen Jiahao from below the stage, his features almost bunching together, gesturing for him to sit down quickly and not cause further trouble.

But Chen Jiahao completely ignored the gazes of others.

Today, he wore an expensive bespoke suit, and his hair was styled to look mature.

At this moment, he straightened his back and looked without flinching at that old pedant of the Lingnan literary world below the stage.

"Sir," Chen Jiahao held the microphone, his tone unexpectedly calm, without a hint of the exasperation typical of youth.

"You say we lack a grand historical perspective, and that is indeed a fact.

But your understanding of grand narratives may contain an inherent bias."

...