Chapter 75: Royalties for Reprinted Articles (Seeking Votes, Seeking Follows)

The first issue of "Today" published his poem "The Answer," a piece Liu Yimin was especially fond of. Most works in this inaugural issue were poems they’d written before; apart from "The Answer," there were few truly worth reading. Many poems were just a handful of short lines strung together, their meaning nearly impossible to grasp—hence why Ai Qing and Zang Kejia dubbed them "obscure." Some of these poems, Liu suspected, were understood only by their authors.

The preface and the letter to readers were quite intriguing. The preface boldly proclaimed that the old generation of poets had fallen behind, and that a new era of poetry was dawning. How could the old poets feel anything but slighted hearing this? Liu Yimin thought it was remarkable that these elders managed to restrain themselves until the eighties before responding.

The main issue, he mused, was that the writing itself wasn’t particularly good. Most of it was on par with what those at the Ruxian Cultural Center produced; perhaps the only difference was that these poets had their own publication and a means to get their work out.

The letter to readers was even more interesting—it claimed, "History has finally given us a chance." Coupled with Beidao’s political stance, this was telling. No wonder, after going abroad, he saw domestic criticism as factional persecution, even oppression.

"Today" was priced at fifty cents a copy—over three times the cost of "People’s Literature" or "Yanjing Literature." This made sense; except for the paper, which was acquired freely, everything else cost money. They simply couldn’t compete with official publications.

Liu Yimin stacked the magazines, predicting that in a few days, everyone on and off campus would be talking about this new journal.

"Yimin, you can actually read English books?" Li Xueqin asked in astonishment, seeing the book in Liu Yimin’s hands. Squinting, he added with a chuckle, "Are you just putting on airs? Our English is all about the same—practically zero. I don’t believe you can really understand it."

"To be honest, while you’re all sleeping, I’ve been studying English," Liu Yimin replied after closing the book, facing a skeptical Li Xueqin. "I don’t think it’s all that hard. With the right methods, you could all learn it, too."

"In that case, tell us—what’s this book about?"

"This book chronicles the American civil rights movement of the 1960s, including Martin Luther King’s famous speeches..." Martin Luther King’s renowned "I Have a Dream" speech was eventually included in Chinese language textbooks.

The three of them were astonished—he really could read it. They pulled Liu Yimin in, urging him to share what the book was about. As word spread, other students passing by stopped and squeezed into their dorm to listen.

Liu Yimin gave a brief overview of the triangular trade, how Black people came to America, how they picked cotton on plantations, and then moved on to what happened in American society in the 1950s and '60s: how Black people fought for their rights, how their leaders were assassinated.

"Those white folks really are something else," Liu Zhenyun exclaimed in his Henan dialect, his frustration slipping through. "After the Blacks helped them win the Civil War and fought in other wars, they were still discriminated against." Since coming to Yanjing University, everyone paid close attention to their accents, even if their Mandarin still sounded awkward.

"That’s why there never was a savior, nor did they rely on gods or emperors. In the end, you have to depend on yourself!"

"Black Americans were carrying fire sticks in their hands!"

"You don’t get it—they called it nonviolent noncooperation."

"So that’s it—nonviolent, they don’t cooperate; violent, I guess they do!" The moment the words left the student’s mouth, laughter erupted. Those familiar with Gandhi knew what nonviolent noncooperation meant; the student had made a fool of himself but still didn’t realize his mistake.

"Actually, in a way, that’s not wrong!" Liu Yimin chuckled. "One stick per second for noncooperation—what if it were three sticks per second?"

"Clap, clap, clap!" Three crisp claps echoed from the doorway. Liu Yimin turned to see an elderly man in a coarse cotton coat standing there, regarding him with admiration.

"Professor, you are—?"

"Professor Deng?" someone recognized him. The old man was Deng Guangming, head of the History Department.

Deng squeezed into the room, smiling. "Liu Yimin, you explained things well. I was chatting with Old Zang recently, and he mentioned a promising young man making waves in literature—turns out he’s from the Chinese Department here at Yanjing. Didn’t expect to meet you today."

"Professor, you flatter me. I was just speaking off the cuff!"

"No need to be modest, young man. I actually came to address the history students today, but happened to hear your talk. Please, continue—I’d like to listen. Perhaps we can even exchange a few ideas."

...

"Yimin, here’s your manuscript fee. I brought it so you wouldn’t have to make a trip," Cui Daoyi said, handing Liu Yimin a yellow envelope. Inside were not just royalties for "Hachiko," but also payments from magazines and newspapers that had reprinted his work.

A total of five magazines and newspapers had reprinted the story "College Entrance Exam 1977." Some sent the payment directly to Liu Yimin, while others sent it to "People’s Literature" for forwarding.

"In just half a year, the standard rate has risen to seven yuan. That’s unprecedented! Your senior, Chen Jiangong, is now getting four yuan from Old Zhou, maybe five soon, but that’s still less than yours."

Last time you met Feng Jicai, I heard you didn’t have to revise your manuscript—he was downcast for days.

Chen Jiangong was a young writer "Yanjing Literature" was nurturing. Aside from that magazine, he published little elsewhere.

"Hahaha, Comrade Feng Jicai has substance and enthusiasm," Liu Yimin recalled how warmly Feng had embraced him at "People’s Literature" last time.

"It’s just that he has to revise his manuscripts so many times, his monthly supplement exceeds my own salary."

"Thank you for bringing the payment in person, Senior. Come, let me treat you to dinner."

The royalties for "Hachiko" totaled 315 yuan; the reprint fees were less, but altogether, the envelope contained about 500 yuan.

Cui Daoyi grabbed Liu Yimin’s arm. "No need to go to the trouble. I wouldn’t dare eat your meal—if I did, you’d be impossible to chase for manuscripts. Any new ideas lately?"

"Senior, give me a break. It’s so cold, my hands are stiff. I need to take it slow."

"Youth is the time for literary creation, what’s a little hardship? You said it yourself: those who chase the light will shine brilliantly. Even if your hands are cold in the dead of winter, the words you write are dazzling. My junior, work hard, persevere, and keep at it!"

Cui Daoyi clapped Liu Yimin on the shoulder, flashed a proud smile as he mounted his bicycle, and rode away.

Liu Yimin pouted, "Hey, Senior, those are my own words!"

"No matter whose words they are, if they’re useful, they’re good words! If you need anything, come to 'People’s Literature'—and don’t forget to bring your manuscript."

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