475: Is Chapter 475 about suffering worthwhile?

Lin Que stood where he was, holding the handwritten outline, his posture exactly the same as it had been ten seconds ago.

There was neither panic nor flattery on his face.

He completed a round of calculations in his mind at lightning speed.

Three seconds.

Lin Que flipped the outline paper in his hand over and placed it on the table behind him.

He straightened up and faced the screen.

"Teacher Jian Shen is too kind."

His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just right for everyone in every corner of the classroom to hear clearly.

"My thoughts may not be mature enough, so consider this a humble contribution."

After saying this polite phrase, he did not add any further preamble.

"I think an author should not stand on either side."

Below the stage, Tang He's brows twitched.

"Not on the side of the individual, nor on the side of the era."

Lin Que's speaking pace was a little slower than usual.

"An author cannot judge the individual on behalf of the era, nor can they negate the era on behalf of the individual."

Lin Que's speaking pace was a little slower than usual.

"What literature should do is to help up those who have been covered by dust after the wheels of the era have rolled by."

"Let them regain their names, their faces, and a real breath."

The air in the classroom changed.

"History textbooks will record how the gears turn."

"Years, events, policies, trends—these things will be written by others, more detailed than any of us could write."

"But when a person is swept up by the era, the breath they swallow, the hand they clench, the silence of a sleepless night—history books often do not record these."

Chen Jiahao's pen stopped.

"But literature must record them."

"Literature remembers that clenched hand, and it also remembers that breath that was never shouted out."

"Its meaning lies in this: when all grand narratives are discussing whether the gears are turning correctly or how fast they are turning, someone is willing to lower their head to see the expression on the face of the person crushed beneath the gears."

Lin Que paused for a beat.

"In 'ordinary world', Sun Shaoan got the brick kiln running, only for it to collapse."

"On the scale of history, this event is nothing."

"There were tens of thousands of township enterprises that went bankrupt during the early period of Reform and Opening Up; his brick kiln didn't even count as a decimal point in the statistics."

"But Teacher Jian Shen wrote down that collapsed kiln. He wrote about the smoke and dust, the broken bricks, and a man squatting silently beside the ruins."

"At that moment, Sun Shaoan was no longer just a number in a statistical category."

"He was a living, breathing person, a farmer who had staked his entire livelihood on the brick kiln, only to be ruthlessly pressed down by life before the ruins."

"He feels pain, he falls silent, but he still has to stand up and keep moving forward."

"This is the place where literature should reach out."

"It is not in a hurry to pass judgment on the era, nor is it in a hurry to shout slogans for anyone."

"It just brushes away the dust and preserves that person's name, face, breath, and silence, stroke by stroke."

"Let those who come after know when they turn this page that there was once a person here who lived earnestly and felt pain earnestly."

The last sentence landed.

There was no sound in the classroom.

Tang He's lips parted slightly, and she didn't close them for a long time.

She stared at Lin Que's profile, the white light of the fluorescent lamps reflected in her pupils.

Chen Jiahao froze in his chair.

His hand was still in the posture of holding a pen, but the tip hovered three centimeters above the paper, not a single word falling onto it.

In that minute or so, his brain had experienced a complete transformation from "breaking into a cold sweat for his brother" to "being rubbed into the ground by his brother."

He suddenly realized that he had never truly understood Lin Que.

He thought Lin Que's greatness lay in his talent.

In the poetic talent that had shocked the capital with 'autumn poem', and the writing power that had moved the whole audience to tears with 'the steps'.

But at this moment, he realized that the foundation supporting that talent was the perspective from which this person viewed the world.

Xu Changge's breathing rhythm changed.

His right hand lay flat on his notebook, his fingertips leaving a shallow indentation on the paper.

"Help up those who have been covered by dust."

Xu Changge thought of the 'heavenly questions' he was currently revising.

What he had been doing before and what Lin Que said were essentially heading in the same direction.

It was just that Lin Que had summarized it in one sentence, into a paradigm that everyone could understand.

Dan Yi sat there, saying nothing.

Something was changing in his gray-blue eyes.

The change was very quiet, like an undercurrent beneath the ice silently changing course.

"When a person is pushed to the edge of the crowd, the words they swallow—history books will not record them."

"But literature will record them."

His years in Mo City.

The days of being called a "bastard," the walk home from school while being pelted with stones, the morning exercises in winter where no one was willing to stand next to him—these things would never appear in any report.

No one recorded them.

But the Dream Weaver recorded them.

The young man in 'the shadow over innsmouth' who discovered his bloodline was mutating.

Jian Shen recorded them.

The noon when Sun Shaoping ate a black flour bun in the corner.

Now Lin Que was telling him that this was the position where literature should squat.

Dan Yi tucked both hands under the desk, fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against thumbs, until they turned white with the force.

In the back row.

Professor Liu Zuoqing's arms had been lowered from his chest.

His body leaned forward at an imperceptible angle, his hands resting on his knees.

He had taught for his whole life.

He had heard countless students answer similar questions.

"Stand on the side of the people," "stand on the side of historical justice," "stand on the side of the truth."

Every answer could get a passing grade.

But no one had ever said "squat down."

The single word "help up" pulled the author down from the judgment seat and put them back into the dust and among the crowd.

The author no longer looked down on the era from on high, nor did they pity the individual from across the shore.

He simply bent down and helped the person who was about to be obscured by grand narratives back into the light.

This positioning was so precise that it left no room for refutation.

Dai Shengzong turned his head and met Professor Liu Zuoqing's gaze.

Neither of them said anything.

But the position of Dai Shengzong's eyebrows changed.

Professor Liu Zuoqing had known him for over twenty years and knew what that angle of his eyebrows meant.

Su Mubai leaned against the back of his chair, watching Lin Que's back, his fingers starting to tap on his knees again.

The rhythm was half a beat faster than before.

Elder Cui squatted beside the equipment, moving his gaze away from the panel, looking through his lenses at the boy standing by the aisle in the first row.

His expression did not change, but he watched for two seconds longer.

Xu Zhengqing stood up.

This action made Su Mubai and Professor Liu Zuoqing look over at the same time.

The old man did not walk around, just changed from a sitting posture to a standing one.

He crossed his arms, his gaze passing through the back of the heads of the thirty students, traveling across the entire classroom, and landing on the boy in the gray hoodie at the very front.

The smile in his eyes had completely faded.

What replaced the smile was something very complex.

Xu Zhengqing had spent sixty years walking in the literary world.

He had seen geniuses, weird talents, and meteors that stunned everyone for a moment only to vanish.

But he had never seen in a seventeen-year-old such a calm, precise, and warm understanding of the essence of literature.

He remembered what Lin Que said that night in the Xu Family study.

"The people who write stories have never left."

He understood it then.

Now he understood it even better.

In the speakers, the silence lasted for nearly ten seconds.

Then Jian Shen's voice rang out.

"Student Lin."

Three words.

The tone was calm but half a degree lighter than all previous remarks.

Thirty heads in the classroom turned in unison back toward the screen.

"You just said that literature must help up the people in the dust."

"Let me add one point."

"After helping them up, you must also leave some evidence for them."

Paused for a beat.

"Don't just write those silences as accusations."

"Write them as evidence that those who come later can see."

"Let people further away know that there were once people on this land who lived like this and felt pain like this."

After this sentence was spoken, a burst of extremely restrained but uncontrollable gasps erupted in the classroom.

Chen Jiahao finally let his pen fall onto the paper.

He quickly wrote down a line of text, the handwriting crooked:

"Write silence as evidence, let those who come later know."

After writing it, he stared at this line for five seconds, a wave of soreness welling up in his nasal cavity.

Lin Que stood where he was, facing the screen, bowing slightly.

"I have learned much."

Three words.

Clean and crisp.

His facial expression was impeccably controlled.

The respect, recognition, and sense of gain that a student should have after receiving a response and addition from a top-tier senior, every layer was presented perfectly in his demeanor.

Not a point more.

Not a hair less.

Everyone below the stage took this as a piece of guidance from a senior to a junior.

On the far right of the back row, Xu Zhengqing slowly withdrew his gaze.

He sat back down, crossed his arms, and leaned back into the chair.

The curve of his lips was very faint, as if he had heard an old saying that only he understood.

On the side of the podium, the dark blue virtual silhouette on the projection screen shimmered, and Jian Shen's voice came through again.

The tone pulled away from the heaviness of just now, returning to the gentle and steady rhythm from the beginning of the lecture.

"Alright, let's continue with the next question, Student Lin."

Lin Que flipped back to the manuscript.

His fingers traced the position of the third set of questions on the paper.

That part had been neatly crossed out with a horizontal line.

But there was another piece of paper pressed beneath the note.

The one Dan Yi had handed over.

It only had one line written on it, the handwriting very small, the strokes tight, carrying a habitual sense of self-restraint.

"Teacher Jian Shen, is writing about the suffering that no one wants to see worth it?"

Lin Que looked at this line of text, his finger pausing for an instant on the edge of the note.

He did not directly read out the original words on the note.

A few seconds later, he pressed it under the other questions about the "value of writing about suffering" and raised his head.

"Teacher Jian Shen, the last question."

Lin Que's voice rang out very clearly in the quiet classroom.

"Several students have mentioned the same confusion: when we write about those lives that few people pay attention to, or even few people are willing to look directly at, where can such writing actually reach?"

"Whose job is it to prove its meaning, and is it worth it?"

The halo on the screen paused for a fleeting moment.

The voice coming from the speakers was half a beat slower than all previous answers.

"It is worth it."

Only two words.

Then there was three seconds of silence.

"The speed at which literature reaches a person is sometimes very slow."

"But one day, there will be someone experiencing the same situation who opens that page in the middle of the night."

"He may not be saved immediately."

"But he will know that he is not alone."

Dan Yi's hand clenched under the desk.

Clenched until his knuckles turned white.

He did not look up, nor did he make a sound.

The brim of his hat pressed down over half his face.

He stared at the desk for a long time, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

That hand, which had been clenched the whole time, finally loosened bit by bit.

Chen Jiahao turned his head to look at him.

When Dan Yi was revising his draft last night, he had leaned over to take a look twice.

He remembered that handwriting, where the strokes were very tight and every character seemed unwilling to take up too much space.

He didn't say anything, just reached out and gently patted Dan Yi on the back.

The projection screen above the podium was still lit.

The dark blue virtual silhouette sat quietly in the center of the screen, the halo flowing slowly.

Jian Shen's voice rang out again, the tone carrying a very faint warmth.

"Thank you for your questions, students."

"Finally, I would like to say a few more words."

"Everyone present is a group of young writers with great edge that I have seen in recent years."

"Your eyes have not yet been polished into a single shape; this is your greatest asset."

"While it is still sharp, go out more, see more."

"Look at the rust on the gears, look at the debris stuck in the teeth of the gears, look at the marks left on the ground after being crushed."

"Remember these things. When your technique is mature enough, write them out."

"Don't rush; good stories never rush."

"Looking forward to meeting again."

...