Chapter 1: Submissions

Spring was turning to summer in 1978, and the weather this year was exceptionally hot. In Ruxian, it hadn’t rained for over a month—not even a few sparse drops managed to fall. Often, the clouds would barely begin to gather before the sun chased them away again. The rumble of thunder sounded more like the dry cough of an old man who’d smoked a lifetime of pipe tobacco—loud but empty.

On the streets of Shiling Commune in Ruxian, passersby moved hurriedly, paying no mind to searching for acquaintances to chat with. They bared their teeth against the oppressive heat, each man and woman pressing onward in search of shade.

In the middle of the street, a young man wearing a battered straw hat, a pale yellow vest, and blue coarse cloth trousers wiped the sweat from his face uncomfortably. His worn canvas “Liberation” shoes gripped the pedals of his bicycle, stubbornly resisting the sun’s harsh glare.

Liu Yimin stopped his bicycle in front of the post office, squeezed through the crowd, and strode quickly inside, his hand gripping the strap of the army-green satchel slung across his shoulder. The edges of the bag were badly frayed, with sparse green threads exposing the original fabric, and a large patch had been sewn onto the bottom.

“Comrade, I’d like to send a letter!”

“Registered or regular?” The clerk replied, barely pausing her work. Needle and thread in hand, she stitched up a parcel with swift, practiced motions.

This was only a branch office for the post in Shiling Commune, with just three clerks and one mail carrier. When things were busy, their hands never stopped. Letters were sent in envelopes, and parcels were sewn into cloth bags by hand, with the address written on the outside—so nothing would be lost.

“Registered, please. Could you give me a larger envelope? I have quite a lot to send,” Liu Yimin said patiently.

Among those with “iron rice bowl” jobs, the post office clerks were some of the few who still treated people well—in fact, their service was considered excellent. At the supply and marketing cooperative, a salesperson who could refrain from yelling at customers would be rated “outstanding.”

“A lot? Just how much do you think you can send?” The clerk scoffed, tying off her parcel before looking up with a smile. But as she caught sight of the thick stack of manuscript pages in Liu Yimin’s hand, dense black characters covering every page, her smile froze.

“Comrade, is this really all a letter? Am I seeing this right?” she asked, double-checking in disbelief.

“No mistake. It’s addressed to the editorial department of ‘People’s Literature and Arts’ in Yanjing. Could you tell me how much it will cost?”

“‘People’s Literature and Arts’? Are you a writer?” The clerk stared at him in shock, scrutinizing him. He didn’t look like any writer she’d ever imagined.

Liu Yimin scratched his head. “Not yet. This is my first novel.”

“Oh, that’s good. There’s a future in writing. But sending this much by registered mail won’t be cheap—I’ll work it out for you.”

Registered mail was faster, and Liu Yimin was anxious for the editorial office to receive his manuscript. Reviewing took time—three rounds of review, then three rounds of proofreading before printing, not to mention inevitable revisions. For a new writer, revisions were a given—the editors would always find something to improve, making it clear your manuscript was promising but could be better.

More established writers received a different attitude; editors would discuss changes with them, and if the writer stood firm, sometimes the manuscript would be published as is.

At the time, local letters cost four fen, non-local eight fen, but registered mail was more expensive, with special requirements: the price covered up to two pages, with an extra charge for anything more.

Liu Yimin’s manuscript ran to forty-five thousand words, far exceeding the two-page limit.

“That’ll be sixty fen in total. Here are the stamps—please affix them yourself. Now, let me bind your manuscript for you. By the way, comrade, what’s the title of your novel?”

“‘The Donkey Gets Water’.”

“You wrote about a donkey? These days, people can barely finish stories about human suffering, and you’re focusing on a donkey? I’ve read the latest issues of ‘People’s Literature and Arts’ and ‘Yanjing Literature’—writing about donkeys won’t do. You need to write about the hardships people suffered over the past decade.”

As she bound his manuscript, the clerk offered her advice. She was referring to “scar literature”—since Liu Xinwu’s “The Class Adviser” was published in October ’77, the literary world had been flooded with such works. In fact, anything with a hint of “scars” was much more likely to be accepted.

“I have faith in my donkey. Do you enjoy reading stories of hardship from the past ten years?”

“I’m a worker—I wouldn’t say I enjoy them, but that’s all the magazines publish now,” she replied, gesturing to a stack of issues nearby.

It was the best of times for writers and pure literature. Spiritual life was so impoverished that reading became the most important pastime of all—not only for intellectuals, but for workers and even rural villagers. Writers’ status had risen; they were no longer targets of public scorn. The payment for published works, though modest, was high by the standards of the day. Most writers lived well on their royalties, though there were rare cases like Lu Yao, who, despite earning considerable fees, still lived in poverty—so poor, in fact, that he couldn’t even afford to travel to Yanjing to collect his prize.

“People’s Literature and Arts” and “Yanjing Literature” had only recently resumed publication, and circulation rose with every issue. This was partly due to the quality of the works, but it would be a stretch to call that the decisive factor. Few works from this era would be repeatedly discussed and studied in later generations.

“Goodbye, comrade!” Liu Yimin said with a smile, waving his hand.

“Goodbye! I hope to see your ‘donkey’ in the next issue,” the clerk replied.

Long after Liu Yimin had left, the clerk continued bundling parcels, her mind turning over the question: just how could one write a novel about a donkey? Was there really anything worth writing?

“Old Zhang, do you think anyone would really write a whole novel about a donkey?”

“Why are you thinking so much? You’re not a writer—how could you know what goes on in a writer’s mind? Get back to work!” Old Zhang put down his bundle, but then added thoughtfully, “Still, if our commune ever produced a real writer, that’d be a great event for the whole commune, maybe even the entire county.”

After leaving the post office, Liu Yimin pushed his bicycle down the street. The road was little more than packed dirt, turning to mud at the first sign of rain. Dust rose with every step, and before long, yellow earth coated his trouser legs.

The people on both sides of the street wore nearly identical clothes—either blue or yellow coarse cloth, with a few army-green uniforms mixed in. Most clothes were patched all over. Faces were streaked with grime, and black sweat trickled down foreheads in visible lines. Liu Yimin gazed at the scene, a trace of confusion on his face.

One question lingered in his mind, one he simply couldn’t understand: how had he been reborn?