1979 Gold Age

Chapter 8 The Way of Life 2

Early the Next Morning, Chen Qi Skipped Work Again.

Leaving from Menkuang Hutong, he followed the central axis straight north, passing the Forbidden City, Beihai, and Shichahai, all the way to HD District. Thunder rumbled in the sky, and pedestrians watching him pedal his hefty 28-inch bicycle couldn't help but feel sorry for it. Who in their right mind would ride a bike so recklessly?

Chen Qi let out a cold snort. What others are reluctant to do, I do standing up!

Not only do I stand up, but I also ride crotchless!

What’s crotchless riding? It’s how little kids ride when their legs are too short—they have to slip under the frame to reach the pedals.

The journey wasn’t short—about 12 kilometers in total. By the time he reached Jimen Bridge on the North Third Ring Road, he was in the area where both Beijing Film Academy and Beijing Film Studio were located. This place was a hub for universities—Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, Beijing Normal University, and Beihang University were all nearby. A bit further down was Zhichun Road—Commander Yao’s old battlefield!

This was the third location of Beijing Film Studio and the most well-known one. The buildings were Soviet-style, and at the entrance stood the studio’s emblematic statue—three figures representing workers, peasants, and soldiers.

In twenty years, some guy named Wang Baoqiang would be hanging around here…

After parking his bike, Chen Qi walked up to the security booth at the entrance and knocked on the window.

“Hello, sir!”

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

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

The old man took the kraft envelope and glanced at it without much expression. This sort of thing happened all the time. He was about to set it aside when the young man suddenly slipped him half a pack of cigarettes with a cheeky grin.

“Here, sir, have a smoke. I really appreciate it.”

“Hmm. Alright, leave it here.”

The cigarettes were Da Qianmen, priced at 3.2 mao per pack—a private stash of his father, Chen Jianjun, which he had swiped.

Da Qianmen was a mid-tier cigarette. At the time, Zhonghua cigarettes came in two sizes—the large pack cost 7.2 mao, and the smaller pack was 6.2 mao, usually reserved for official supply. Tianjin also had a brand called Hengda—yes, Hengda—which was also priced at 3.2 mao per pack.

The old man was practical—cigarettes made things smoother.

He reached up, grabbed a small blackboard, and wrote a line in bold strokes:

"Submission for the Literature Department, Film Creation!"

"Thank you, sir!"

With that settled, Chen Qi hopped back onto his bike and sped off again. His next stop: China Youth Daily, where he submitted "Why Does Life’s Path Keep Getting Narrower?"

He didn’t bother with People’s Daily—they might not publish something like this. But China Youth Daily? They definitely would—it was their niche.

At this time, China Youth Daily had a circulation of 2 million copies, making it the highest-circulating newspaper in the country.

All morning, Chen Qi was busy delivering manuscripts. He finally wrapped up around noon and rode back down the central axis at a leisurely pace. When he reached the Chairman’s Memorial Hall, he stopped.

The hall had been completed and opened to the public on September 9, 1977.

In his previous life, his first visit to Beijing had been in 1998—he remembered it clearly because it coincided with the World Cup. Back then, he had come with his family and visited the memorial hall. He knew its layout:

The front hall housed a seated statue of the Chairman, while the back hall contained the crystal coffin.

There was always a long queue outside. Many people were visiting for the first time while on business trips from other provinces. Their expressions were sorrowful, and some still wore black clothing—after all, it had only been three years since his passing.

Chen Qi stood outside for a while, silently watching, but did not enter.

Then, he headed back to the tea stall, grinning as he apologized to the group, claiming he had a stomachache. No one really questioned him—he had already made a name for himself yesterday.

There was still no word from Auntie Wang. Whether she was actually negotiating or just stalling remained unclear. Maybe the matter was still being discussed. Either way, his manuscripts had been submitted.

China Youth Daily.

Founded in 1951, the newspaper was once discontinued but was revived in 1978. As the official publication of the Communist Youth League, it primarily targeted young readers. The title of the newspaper was even given by the Chairman himself, making it highly influential.

Lately, the entire newsroom had been filled with excitement.

They had shown great foresight and boldness in discovering a once-banned novel from the turmoil of past years—The Second Handshake. They had condensed it into a 60,000-word version and were serializing it daily, dedicating a quarter of a page to each installment.

The response was overwhelming. Newspapers became scarce, and people from various workplaces eagerly awaited each issue. Long lines formed at newsstands, and in a frenzy, readers even shattered a glass window at a Shanghai post office.

The novel covered themes of leadership, intellectuals, love, and international relations—topics that were strictly taboo at the time. The author had once been sentenced to death for writing it. Fortunately, he survived, as the Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee was convened before his execution could be carried out.

When the novel was later published as a book, it sold over 4 million copies, a record that stood for many years.

"Xiao Li, what are you holding?"

"Reader letters."

"Another sackful?"

"More than that!"

In the editorial office, a young editor dropped a full sack of letters onto the floor, wiped his brow, and went back out, only to return with two more. Gasping for breath, he grumbled, "I can't keep doing this! I'm an editor, not a porter!"

"It just shows how passionate our readers are!"

"Exactly! Even our circulation numbers have gone up significantly."

At this, everyone felt a surge of pride. With the highest circulation in the country, who could challenge them?

"But The Second Handshake is about to finish serialization. Do we have a new focal point?"

"How about the educated youth cooperatives? It's the hottest topic right now."

"We could cover that, but I’ve read a lot of articles on it. They’re too dry—like government reports. Readers prefer something vivid and heartfelt."

"I might have something…"

An older editor suddenly stood up, holding a letter in his hand. "This just arrived today. Pass it around."

"Let me see!"

A young editor took it first and glanced at the title—Why Does Life’s Path Keep Getting Narrower?

"Oh, a sentimental piece!"

His interest was piqued. In these turbulent times, who dared to express their emotions openly? Everyone had been suppressing their feelings for too long. Now that there was a small opening, emotions poured out like a flood. People wanted to vent, and they also enjoyed reading about others doing the same.

"I am 19 years old. I should be just beginning my journey in life, but I already feel exhausted, as if I’ve reached a dead end."

"As a child, I heard stories about How the Steel Was Tempered and Lei Feng’s Diary. Though I didn’t fully understand them back then, the heroic deeds in those books kept me awake at night, filled with excitement."

"I carefully copied that famous passage from Pavel Korchagin about the meaning of life into the first page of my diary:"

‘When looking back on his past, he will not regret having wasted his youth, nor feel ashamed for leading a mediocre life…’

"When I filled up my first diary, I copied it again into a second one."

"That passage gave me so much encouragement!"

"Then the great upheaval happened… [content omitted]"

"After returning to the city, I was assigned to a small collective cooperative, selling tea at a stall near Qianmen with twelve other young people, starting a life of self-reliance."

"I long for truth, goodness, and beauty, but I have been disappointed."

"Society’s prejudice made it difficult for our small tea stall to survive. On the very first day, we fought through our shyness and worked hard, only to be mocked by workers from a plastic factory. They called us vagrants, ex-convicts, and even sang ‘Abalagu’ at us in derision…"

"A girl in our group was so hurt that she cried, but there was nothing she could do."

"We knew deep down that what they said wasn’t entirely wrong. We felt inferior. We couldn’t compare to those with stable jobs in state-owned enterprises. We weren’t asking for much—just to make a living through honest labor."

"But the pain and confusion inside us grew heavier each day, almost unbearable."

"I often wonder, what is the purpose of life?"

"To uphold noble ideals? To realize one’s self-worth? Those things feel so distant from me."

"People say the times are progressing, but I can’t seem to feel its strong embrace."

"Why does life’s path feel narrower and narrower?"

"And yet, I still have the strength to move forward…"

"I may not be able to define the meaning of life yet, but through my own experiences, I’ve come to believe that having an inner spiritual sanctuary is crucial. It can shine like the sun, illuminating the darkest corners of our lives."

"This sanctuary can be literature, painting, poetry, music, or even carpentry, sewing, or fishing. As long as it is a world of our own, something we love deeply, it will give us strength."

"For me, literature has always been my sunlight."

"Editors, I am not writing to you in search of some magical solution. I simply want young people across the country to read this. I believe our hearts are connected."

"I hope this can serve as encouragement for those who are lost and confused. May we all break free from our temporary hardships and face the sea, where spring flowers bloom!"

The letter passed from hand to hand in the editorial office. Each editor who read it let out a soft sigh. The writing was unpretentious, yet deeply moving. It expressed the writer’s longing for home—no, not home—it expressed his confusion about life and his determination to keep going.

It was honest. Truly honest.

"Well? What do you think?"

"It’s great. Readers will absolutely resonate with this."

"Didn’t he say he sells tea at Qianmen? Hey, get a reporter over there ASAP! I want this in tomorrow’s paper!"