CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 33 Writing in the Republic Era (32)

After returning home, Le Jing, unsurprisingly, fell ill again. He had long since given up getting angry at his paper-thin body.

Counting the few days he spent in jail, he had already missed work for five days. Le Jing thought he might as well resign from his librarian job altogether. He had only taken the position to conveniently look up reference materials and to keep himself busy since staying home all day was too boring. But now, taking sick leave every few days, it was really quite decent of the library not to have fired him already. So he simply wrote a letter to the library, submitting his resignation.

Given his frail, sickly state, he also felt it was inappropriate to visit Marshal Xue just yet, so he wrote another letter to explain, promising that once he recovered, he would visit in person to apologize and offer thanks.

That very afternoon, his boss’s boss’s boss—Principal Zhou Dezhang—came to call.

Zhou Dezhang had only meant to pay a friendly visit and ask a few questions, but upon seeing the boy’s sickly face, he was shocked. He almost thought the lad had been tortured in prison. After hearing Le Jing’s explanation, Zhou Dezhang spoke earnestly:

“Jingran, don’t take it the wrong way, but at your young age your body is already so frail—how will that do? You really must exercise more.”

Of course, Le Jing understood, but this wasn’t something that could be rushed—it had to be done slowly, step by step.

“Actually, I had been hesitant about something,” Zhou Dezhang said kindly with a smile. “But now, seeing how weak you are, I think it may be a good idea after all. Jingran, how about studying at my school? At your age, you should be in school anyway. Reading strengthens the body, cultivates the spirit, and will greatly benefit your health as well.”

Le Jing was stunned.

He had never expected Zhou Dezhang to make such a suggestion. So, in Zhou Dezhang’s eyes, he had always been just a dropout? But Zhou Dezhang was so busy—on one of his rare visits to the library, he happened to go on a day when Le Jing was absent on sick leave. No wonder Zhou Dezhang didn’t know that his “young friend” was actually just a temp, a subordinate’s subordinate.

Fearing Le Jing would misunderstand, Zhou Dezhang quickly explained:

“I know you’re young in years but rich in talent. Both Qiushi (Zheng Yiliang, styled Qiushi) and I have always treated you as a peer. But, as they say, there is no end to learning. With your intelligence, not attending university would be a pity. Qiushi and I may not be people who judge solely by educational background, but receiving a university education will be important for your future development and connections.”

Zhou Dezhang’s words were blunt, and Le Jing understood his good intentions. Alone in Beiping with no support, if he wanted to avoid repeating his recent troubles, he had to build his own network quickly. And for scholars, there was no more reliable bond than that of classmates.

Back when the imperial exam system was still in place, fellow exam graduates often banded together to support each other’s careers. Even in modern times, alumni associations were powerful networks—certain resources and information circulated only among fellow alumni. This was why children from intellectual families had a better chance of entering prestigious schools.

Those Republican-era newspapers and outspoken literati who dared to speak boldly all had powerful backers. That was why, in the anti-opium incident, the police had arrested only him—because he had no one behind him.

In the Republic of China, there was no quicker path to social mobility than through study.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt Zhou Dezhang’s idea was excellent. With Zhou Dezhang at the school, he would have protection. And given his constant illnesses, work was clearly unsuitable. Instead of sitting idle at home, school would be the best choice. As he had once written to Bai Shaoyao: “For those with culture, there is always another path.”

So, he readily agreed to Zhou Dezhang’s proposal, promising to enroll once he recovered.

During his convalescence, Le Jing truly experienced what it meant to be a public figure. Somehow, his address had leaked, and every day strangers and acquaintances alike came to visit. Visits would have been fine, but some had ulterior motives—trying to get him to badmouth the government or the president. It wore him out, until at last he shut his doors to all but close friends, finally gaining some peace.

A few days later, Yang Jinglun came by, not empty-handed. Besides fruit for the sick, he also brought a dozen newspapers.

What did it feel like to see one’s own black-and-white photograph in a century-old newspaper?

Le Jing now had an answer: that photo would likely haunt him for life as black history.

He finally understood why there were so few “handsome masters” in Republican China. The truth was, black-and-white photography back then had poor resolution, cameras had few functions, and film was expensive—you couldn’t afford to waste hundreds or thousands of shots just to practice. Most journalists weren’t skilled photographers; they only cared about capturing a clear likeness. So, his seven-out-of-ten looks became three or four in the photo. Worse, he had just been released from prison, looking haggard and sickly—like some shabby opium addict.

Many papers even caught the moment Yang Jinglun raised his hand high in the crowd. Dazzled by the flash, Le Jing had squinted and grimaced in confusion, and in print he looked positively idiotic.

These newspapers and photos were the reason he’d had no peace these days.

While Le Jing nitpicked every flaw in the images, Yang Jinglun was ecstatic.

Flipping through the papers with glee, Yang Jinglun exclaimed:

“Sir, look—Literary Gazette, Chaoyang Daily, Justice Times! Ha! Even Nanjing papers have reprinted the story!”

“Nanjing? How do you know?” In those days, transport was poor and warlords fought constantly, so newspapers usually circulated only locally. Nanjing was far from Beiping; it seemed unlikely those papers would reach here.

Yang Jinglun beamed, shaking a paper. “There’s telegraph, after all! Women’s Weekly says that even Mr. Ye in Nanjing wrote to praise your courage and integrity in defying tyranny!”

Le Jing: … Had he really gone daft while recuperating?

He suddenly realized that although he had only spent four days in jail, the incident had become a huge affair—even Nanjing papers reported it.

To his doubts, Yang Jinglun explained with a grin:

“The Nanjing government and the Beiping government don’t get along. Whatever the enemy opposes, they support. In their press, you’re already a hero defying warlord rule and standing fearless against power.”

Le Jing understood at once. This was just a clash of titans between the Nationalists and the warlords—nothing to do with a small fry like him.

After admiring the papers’ portrayal of his heroic image, Yang Jinglun finally got to the point.

“Sir, great news! Your Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes and Memoirs of a Courtesan are going to be published!”

“Published?” Le Jing asked, puzzled. “Wasn’t I already blacklisted?”

“Technically, yes. But isn’t Marshal Xue’s favorite concubine one of your fans?” Yang Jinglun shot him a knowing look. “Besides, while your pieces criticize society, they don’t touch too many taboos. Some content about prostitutes is sensitive, but they won’t change it.” Yang Jinglun rubbed his nose, looking helpless.

Le Jing suddenly thought of a phrase once used to describe Korea under chaebol rule: ‘Actively admit fault, resolutely refuse reform.’

History repeated itself in uncanny ways; mistakes were made again and again.

Yang Jinglun continued:

“Of course, if you want to keep publishing in the future, you’ll need a new pen name. Have you thought of one?”

“I have,” said Le Jing. “Wheatfield.”

The inspiration came from The Catcher in the Rye. Honestly, he hadn’t cared much for the stream-of-consciousness novel, but he had been touched by the protagonist’s words to his sister:

“There’s this field of rye, see, where thousands of children are playing. No one’s around—no adults, I mean—except me. I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. My job is to catch them if they start running toward the edge—because they’re running around wildly, not knowing where they’re going. I have to be there to catch them. That’s all I’d do all day: just be the catcher in the rye.”

Just like that cry of “Save the children!” in the first modern vernacular novel of China, in this era, adults had already “eaten people,” consciously or not. Only children remained pure, still salvageable from the cliff’s edge, still able to escape the fate of being consumed.

When the older generation passed away, only the new children could build a new nation.

Yang Jinglun, oblivious to the deeper meaning behind the pseudonym, nodded casually:

“Your Rat’s-Eye View series is unfinished, but it can’t continue serialization now. You’ll need a new series quickly.” He paused, then added with concern:

“Sir, perhaps… the next ones shouldn’t be so sensitive. You know, maybe just a little more… how should I say…”

Le Jing laughed and cut in: “No talk of politics?”

Yang Jinglun’s eyes lit up as he nodded vigorously, then lowered his head in embarrassment.

“I know it’s cowardly of me to ask. But now that you’re on the government’s blacklist, if your next work offends again, not only might you be wanted, but our paper could be shut down. Please, sir, lie low for now, for the sake of the future.”

Truthfully, Le Jing already intended to change topics. Sensitive subjects could be hidden under Lin Zhongqi’s pen name in The Rise of the Dynasty. Under Wheatfield, he wanted to publish children’s literature.

Unlike later times, where children’s books flourished, this era had nothing. Children’s education began with dry classics like Thousand Character Classic and Hundred Family Surnames, far too dull for a child’s mind.

Children were the true future of a nation.

Untainted, still pure—only children could absorb his ideas.