Chapter Forty: A Young Girl’s Heart Is Always Poetry

Ji Yunyun had always stayed at her aunt’s house while attending school. Her aunt’s home was in the staff housing just behind the school, so it took only five minutes to walk to the classroom building at Fudan High School. Today, since she would be getting her report card and could return to her family’s house in Jin’an District, Ji Yunyun woke up especially early.

After breakfast—soy milk and fried dough sticks her aunt Ji Xin had brought back—Ji Yunyun tucked a volume of essays by Murong Xue under her arm and went to the classroom, planning to read for a while to pass the time. When she arrived at the building, two student council members were already putting up the red honor roll.

She paused to glance at the list for the second-year students; at the top, clear and bold, was the name Su Yuxi. As for the names that followed, they seemed merely to fill out the list.

Next came the honor roll for the third years. Ji Yunyun’s grades were decent; she had made it into the top twenty in her grade during the last midterms of her second year. She felt she’d done well this time, too, so she was curious to see if she’d managed to break into the top twenty again.

When the two council members finished posting the list, Ji Yunyun saw that first place in Class 3 (Section 2) was Chen Haoran, which reminded her of that rather annoying, chubby student she somewhat disliked. Scanning further down, she didn’t find her own name, so she turned to head to her classroom.

As she was leaving, she noticed the council members posting a few more exam papers on the board. Her curiosity piqued, Ji Yunyun walked over to see the name column filled in with Cheng Xiaoyu, written in a script so beautiful and familiar. Looking at the score—150 points, a perfect mark—she was astonished.

Language arts was perhaps the hardest subject in which to achieve a perfect score. Usually, no matter how well one wrote, the essay and the neatness of the paper gave teachers plenty of opportunities to deduct points. In the history of the Chinese college entrance exams, no one had ever achieved a perfect score in language arts. The great writer Ji Xiancheng had only scored 148.

On the second paper, Cheng Xiaoyu lost two points for a single mistaken character. Ji Yunyun’s mind was already a muddle—how could a two-point deduction still be a perfect score? Looking further, she saw a string of red checkmarks—no errors.

Then she came to the essay section of the last paper. The topic was strikingly familiar: “Dreams.” Ji Yunyun herself had written about her dream of performing on stage at the National Grand Theatre.

She glanced at Cheng Xiaoyu’s paper. The line breaks stood out; it was obviously a poem. Generally, writing a poem in the essay section was not allowed, Ji Yunyun knew. Thinking of Cheng Xiaoyu’s “The Farthest Distance in the World,” she guessed he must have written a poem so powerful it had stunned even the teachers.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Ji Yunyun moved closer to the bulletin board, reading the wild, unrestrained lines written on the paper.

Beside her, someone was already reciting aloud:

“To Dream as a Steed”—Poetry Exempted

I wish to be the loyal son of distant lands
And the fleeting lover of material things
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
I must walk the path of martyrs and jesters alike
Though ten thousand may smother the flame
I alone will raise it high
This flame bursts into blossom upon the sacred homeland
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
By this flame I cross the endless night of my life
This flame for the language of the great homeland and the bandit fortress built of scattered stones
The Dunhuang whose bones are cold even in July, made of dream’s soil

Like white firewood and the hard, pale strips of snow
Laid across the mountains of the gods
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
I throw myself into this fire—these three things are the imprisoned lamp giving forth light
Ten thousand will pass over the edge of my blade, building the language of the homeland
I willingly begin all anew
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
I too am willing to wear out the bottom of my cell
Of all the gods’ creations, I am the most perishable, bearing the irresistible speed of death
Only grain do I cherish
I hold it tightly, raising children in my native land
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
I too would bury myself on the high mountains, guarding the peaceful homeland
Facing the great river, I am endlessly ashamed
I have wasted my youth and gained only exhaustion
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
Years slip away, not a drop remains
In a drop of water, a horse’s life ends
A thousand years hence, if I am reborn on the riverbank of my homeland
A thousand years hence, may I once again possess the rice fields of China and the snowy mountains of King Zhou
The heavenly steed’s hooves resound
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
I choose an eternal cause
My cause is to become the sun for a lifetime

From time immemorial to this day
He is resplendent, radiant
Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds
At last, I am borne into the immortal sun by the gods of dusk
The sun is my name
The sun is my life
The sun’s summit buries the corpse of poetry—a kingdom of a thousand years and me
Riding the phoenix of five thousand years and a dragon called “Horse”—I am doomed to fail
But poetry itself, like the sun, is destined to triumph.

Ji Yunyun finished reading in one breath, feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion, yet also a deep and helpless sorrow. Below the poem was a lengthy commentary written in red by the grading teacher, taking up even more space than the essay itself.

The poet is one who pursues grand and magnificent ideals—“I wish to be the loyal son of distant lands.” In their lives, their steadfast and noble beliefs render everyday existence barren and helpless, but they do not care—“Material things are fleeting, not worth our relentless pursuit or petty calculations. Thus the poet says he is only ‘the fleeting lover of material things.’” The poet’s models are the great luminaries who have shaped the collective body of human poetry, those masters who have charged toward spiritual utopias. “Like all poets who ride dreams as their steeds,” the poet does not fear living in a world of oppression and misunderstanding. In the long, dark night of existence, in a “second-rate era,” the fires of faith, purity, courage, and love that once illuminated mankind’s spirit are extinguished one by one. Many poets use this as an excuse to write about nihilism and absurdity; many poems become apologia for void and meaninglessness. But the poet disagrees: “Though ten thousand may smother the flame, I alone will raise it high / This flame bursts into blossom upon the sacred homeland.” Here is a new understanding of poetry’s purpose: poetry is both a great ascension and a redemption; it bears the weight of hell yet stands above it, preserving idealism and free dignity, resisting spiritual decline. In redeeming the soul, the poet also completes the sublimation of individual life: “By this flame I cross the endless night of my life.”

The poet is one who deeply contemplates language, “the house of being” (to quote Heidegger). The poet recognizes that humanity’s essential trait—language—is threatened with obscurity, yet has the possibility of clarity and elevation; through saving language, one creates grounds for the development of spirit. Thus, understanding language is linked to understanding existence and life. Here, the poet writes of a deep attachment to and conscious belonging within the culture of the homeland—“the language of the homeland and the bandit fortress built of scattered stones / The Dunhuang whose bones are cold even in July, made of dream’s soil.” Language, beyond its literal sense, is expanded to mean the broader “context” of a people’s cultural atmosphere—the “genealogy of language” inherited through generations of poets. The poet seeks to exalt it, “throwing himself into this fire,” “willingly beginning all anew,” “building the language of the homeland.” Yet in a Chinese intellectual world shrouded by a “sense of cultural failure,” reawakening old traditions is exceptionally difficult; it tests not only the poet’s comprehension and creativity, but also his confidence and will. It is a predicament actively sought, an attempt to survive within adversity.

“I have wasted my youth,” having failed to compose poems worthy of his ambition, “facing the great river, I am endlessly ashamed.” But when a person dies, their aspirations do not vanish. Thus, the poet imagines his own “rebirth.” This rebirth is not out of nostalgia for earthly life, but to continue composing the great poem left unfinished in life. “A thousand years hence, if I am reborn on the riverbank of my homeland,” “I choose an eternal cause.” That “eternal cause” is to write the “great poem merging nation and humanity, poetry and truth.” Thus, the prophecy shines with brilliance: “The sun is my name / The sun is my life / The sun’s summit buries / the corpse of poetry—a kingdom of a thousand years and me / riding the phoenix of five thousand years and a dragon called ‘Horse’.” The poet’s spiritual atmosphere diffuses, summoning and inspiring all living Chinese poets. Life is fleeting—“I am doomed to fail”—but “poetry itself, like the sun, is destined to triumph!”

The structure of this poem is not large, but its vision is vast. Amid powerful emotional surges, the poet maintains a steady logic; three layers echo, converse, and progress, the structure is strict and robust. Through the tension between soaring ideals and humble sentiment, the sanctity and fragility of life, the poet’s missteps and poetry’s grand path—woven together, it expresses the pure heart of a Chinese poet.

This is not merely an exam essay; it is the most magnificent and profound lament in modern Chinese history.

Nor is this the work of a high school student—this is a great poet, a totem of this era.

Ji Yunyun felt as if her soul was scattered to the winds. She had always known that Cheng Xiaoyu’s writing was excellent—she had thought him talented ever since “The Farthest Distance in the World”—but she had never expected even the teachers considered him a poet. What a sacred title, what glorious praise.

Ji Yunyun glanced at the math paper posted nearby—zero points. She couldn’t help but laugh. Seeing that Cheng Xiaoyu had answered the questions in verse only confirmed that poets were eccentric creatures, a blend of genius and oddity. Suddenly, she felt at ease about Cheng Xiaoyu’s cold and distant attitude toward her. With such brilliance, he was entitled to his pride.

At that moment, the literary-minded Ji Yunyun no longer saw Cheng Xiaoyu as a peer, but as an idol. After a moment’s thought, she decided to return to her aunt’s house and pin “The Farthest Distance in the World” to the bulletin board.

It was a sudden impulse—she simply believed that such fine poetry ought to be shared with everyone.

But from that moment, things spun wildly out of control: everyone assumed it was a love poem Cheng Xiaoyu had written for Ji Yunyun.

Ji Yunyun tried to explain several times, but no one listened seriously; they only laughed, teasing that her explanations were merely attempts at concealment. In fact, she wasn’t annoyed by their misunderstanding—there was even an indescribable, ambiguous feeling stirring in her heart.