Chapter 8: Oh, the Path of Life 2

Early the next morning, Chen Qi skipped work again.

Starting from Menkuang Alley, he rode north along the central axis, passing the Forbidden City, Beihai Park, Shichahai, all the way to the HD district. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. Passersby felt sorry watching him pedal his old, battered bike—who would dare ride a bicycle like that?

Chen Qi snorted coldly. The bike others wouldn’t dare touch, I pedal standing up on it!

Not only do I stand up, I even pedal with my crotch!

What does that mean? When kids ride bikes, their short legs make them pedal with a rocking motion—crotch up and down.

The journey wasn’t short, about twelve kilometers. When he reached Jimen Bridge on the North Third Ring Road, the Beijing Film Studio and Beijing Film Factory were there. This area was also a hub for universities—Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, Beijing Normal University, and Beihang University were all nearby. Beyond that lay Zhichun Road, the battlefield of Commander Yao!

This was the third site of the Beijing Film Factory, and the one he knew best. The architecture was Soviet-style, with a factory emblem statue of three workers, peasants, and soldiers standing at the entrance.

Twenty years later, a guy named Wang Baoqiang would be stationed here...

He parked his bike and approached the guardhouse, knocking on the window and calling out, “Hello, sir!”

“Who are you looking for?” the old man asked.

“I’m here to submit something. I live in the southern city, figured delivering it myself would be faster, so no need to trouble the postal workers.”

“...”

The old man took the brown paper bag and glanced at it with no expression. This was a common occurrence. Just as he was about to set it down, the young man handed over half a pack of cigarettes with a cheeky grin: “Sir, I heard you smoke. This is for you!”

“Hmm, leave it here.”

The cigarettes were called Da Qianmen, costing 32 cents a pack. They were his father Chen Jianjun’s private stash, stolen by Chen Qi himself.

Da Qianmen was a mid-range brand. At the time, Zhonghua cigarettes came in two sizes: the larger one at 72 cents a pack, and the smaller at 62 cents, usually for special supply. Tianjin also had a brand called Hengda, also 32 cents a pack.

The old man was practical—using cigarettes to get things done.

He grabbed a small blackboard and quickly scribbled a line: “Literature Department, ‘Film Creation’ submissions here!”

“Thank you, sir!”

Chen Qi hopped on his bike and sped off, heading straight to the China Youth Daily headquarters to submit his piece titled “The Narrowing Path of Life.” He didn’t send it to the People’s Daily; they might not publish such an article, but Youth Daily surely would, as it matched their focus.

China Youth Daily now had a circulation of two million copies, the largest newspaper distribution in the country.

In short, he spent the whole morning delivering manuscripts. Near noon, he finally finished and slowly rode back along the central axis, stopping in front of the Teachers’ Memorial Hall.

On September 9, 1977, the Memorial Hall was completed and opened to the public.

In his past life, Chen Qi first came to the capital in 1998—he remembered clearly because it was during the World Cup. Back then, he came with his family and visited the Memorial Hall. He knew its layout well:

The front hall held a statue of the teacher; the back hall housed a crystal coffin.

There always seemed to be long queues here. Many visitors were business travelers from out of town, visiting the Memorial Hall for the first time, grief-stricken, dressed in black—after all, the teacher had passed only three years ago.

“...”

Chen Qi watched from outside for a while but didn’t go in.

He then returned to the tea stall, grinning and apologizing to everyone, saying he had a stomach ache. No one paid much attention—he had already made a name for himself yesterday.

At Aunt Wang’s place, there was still no news. Whether real communication was happening or just a pretense, or if they were still considering things, at least his manuscript had been submitted.

***

China Youth Daily.

Founded in 1951, it had once ceased publication but resumed in 1978. It was the official newspaper of the Communist Youth League, targeting young readers. Submissions assigned by the teachers carried great influence.

Recently, the entire newspaper staff was jubilant.

Because they had the foresight and courage to find a “banned book” from the humanitarian wave called The Second Handshake. They condensed it into 60,000 words and serialized it daily, taking up a quarter of a page.

The book became a sensation overnight. Offices and institutions eagerly awaited each installment. Long lines formed at newsstands, and crazed readers even shattered the glass of a post office in Shanghai.

The novel depicted leaders, intellectuals, romance, and overseas relations—taboo topics at the time. Its author was once sentenced to death, but fortunately survived because the Third Plenary Session of the Eleventh Central Committee convened before the execution.

Later, the book was printed and sold over four million copies, a record that stood for many years.

“Xiao Li, what are you carrying there?”

“Reader letters!”

“Another whole sack?”

“More than that!”

Inside the editorial office, a young editor dropped a heavy sack of letters on the floor, wiped his sweat, then came back carrying two more sacks, panting: “I quit! I’m an editor, not a porter!”

“That just shows how passionate our readers are!”

“Exactly. Even our newspaper circulation has gone up a lot.”

Everyone felt proud of that—being the country’s number one in circulation was hard to argue with.

“But The Second Handshake will finish serializing soon. Any new hot topics?”

“How about the educated youth cooperatives? That’s the hottest topic now.”

“Could do that, but I’ve read many articles—too dry. Don’t want it to feel like government documents. People like lively and sincere stories.”

“I actually have one…”

An older editor suddenly stood up holding a letter: “This came in today. You all take a look.”

“Let me see!”

The young editor took it eagerly and read the title: “The Narrowing Path of Life.”

“Oh, a lyrical piece!”

He was intrigued. In such a tense era, who dared openly express feelings? So everyone had bottled up emotions for a long time. When a small opening appeared, the floodgates burst—people vented their own feelings and enjoyed seeing others do the same.

“I am 19 years old this year, just stepping into life, yet I feel utterly exhausted, as if reaching the end.

“As a child, I heard stories of How the Steel Was Tempered and Lei Feng’s Diary. Though I didn’t fully understand, the heroes’ deeds stirred me, causing sleepless nights.

“I even copied Paul’s famous words about life’s meaning neatly on the first page of my diary: ‘When recalling the past, he would neither regret wasted years nor be ashamed of idleness...’

“I copied those words again into a second diary.

“That passage gave me so much encouragement!

“Later, during the humanitarian wave... [omitted]

“After returning to the city, I was assigned to a street collective cooperative with twelve companions. We set up a tea stall at Qianmen, selling tea and starting a life of self-reliance.

“I longed for truth, kindness, and beauty, but I was disappointed.

“Society’s prejudice made our little tea stall struggle. On opening day, we worked hard despite shyness and unfamiliarity, but some plastic factory workers mocked us for no reason, calling us drifters, ex-prisoners, even singing ‘Abalagu’ at us...

“One girl was so upset she cried but could do nothing.

“We knew deep down they were right. We felt inferior. We couldn’t compare to state-run units and didn’t expect much—just to live by our labor was enough.

“But the inner pain and confusion grew daily, unbearable.

“I often wondered, what is the purpose of life?

“For lofty ideals? For self-realization?

“Those seemed so far away from me.

“Some say the times are advancing, but I can’t feel their strong embrace.

“The path of life seems narrower the further I go.

“Yet I still have the strength to keep walking...

“I may not yet grasp life’s meaning, but from my experience, building an inner spiritual home is crucial. It can shine like the sun, illuminating the darkest corners.

“It can be literature, painting, poetry, music, even woodworking, tailoring, or fishing—anything that belongs solely to us and that we love completely. That will give us strength.

“I’ve loved literature since childhood; it is my shining sun.

“Editor, I write this letter not to ask for solutions from you, but to let youths nationwide see that I believe our hearts are connected.

“I hope to encourage countless youths lost and confused, to break free from temporary hardships, face the sea, and welcome spring blossoms!”

“...”

The letter circulated through the editorial office. Everyone sighed softly after reading it. The writing was plain but heartfelt, expressing the author’s homesickness—no, the author’s confusion and will to move forward.

Very sincere, yes, sincere.

“What do you think?”

“Good, definitely relatable.”

“Don’t they mention the tea stall at Qianmen? Hey, hey, tell the reporters, get them to interview! I want this in tomorrow’s paper!!”

(Thanks to the league leaders Huabi Xuan and Yuxian Qitian...)