1979 Gold Age

Chapter 10: The Emotional Blogger in 1979

After Dinner.

The sunset glow was beautiful today. There was no such thing as a peaceful and quiet life in the courtyard—just the usual mundane bits and pieces of daily life.

Inside the house, Chen Jianjun was repairing a fountain pen by the fading daylight. Chen Qi sat with Yu Xiuli, winding yarn into a ball. The three of them were quiet, their attention drawn to the only household appliance they owned—the radio, which was broadcasting Yuan Kuocheng’s storytelling of Tracks in the Snowy Forest.

At this time, the old master hadn’t yet started telling Romance of the Three Kingdoms. His stories were all revolutionary tales.

"When was his god-granddaughter born again?"

"I think it was in ‘87—still eight years away. I’d be 27 by then. That’s quite an age gap! Hey, wasn’t her grandfather a Xihe Daggu singer? Maybe I should befriend him now so I can recognize her as my god-granddaughter in the future?"

"But speaking of which, Liu Shishi really aged like fine wine. Especially after having a child—she looks even better than when she was young..."

Chen Qi's mind wandered as he wound the yarn, casually leaping decades ahead in thought. A true case of quantum fluctuation.

Once the storytelling ended, a health awareness program followed, then a rebroadcast of the day's news:

"At the end of this month, the Ministry of Culture will hold an awards ceremony at the CPPCC Hall to honor outstanding films and young creators. This is the second time since 1956 that the government has issued such awards."

Hearing this, Yu Xiuli suddenly perked up. She was a devoted film fan.

"Liu Xiaoqing! She’s definitely on the list!"

"Tang Guoqiang must be there too!"

"The movies from the past couple of years have been great. Chen Chong and Li Xiuming are absolutely stunning!"

"And that Chen Peisi from Look at This Family is hilarious. Hey, I heard his dad is Chen Qiang?"

"No need to ‘hear’—he definitely is."

"Oh wow, your Chen family sure has its fair share of talented people," Yu Xiuli teased with a sarcastic tone.

Chen Qi was not pleased. "Mom, my self-esteem is hurt."

"Oh no, no! I didn’t mean it that way, not about you!"

Yu Xiuli quickly backpedaled, afraid she had bruised her eldest son's pride—after all, he was just selling tea for a living.

"Chen Qi, you home?"

A voice came from outside. Just from the sound of it, he knew it was Auntie Wang. She was like an NPC, occasionally dropping by to update him on the "mission progress."

She walked in with a smile. "Ah, a cozy little family moment. I need a word with the boy."

"What’s up?"

"Nothing major, just some updates on the tea stall."

Chen Qi followed Auntie Wang to the entrance of the courtyard. She looked troubled and sighed. "Kid, I swear I didn’t brush you off. I really did talk to the plastic factory. They’re taking it seriously and will give you an official response after a discussion."

"A discussion?"

"Of course, they need to have a meeting about it! You think they can just hand out punishments on a whim? Everything has to be discussed first. Don’t be impatient, just wait a couple more days."

"Alright, I’ll wait. Thanks for your trouble."

Auntie Wang was a little surprised. This kid suddenly seemed much easier to talk to. She even advised, "It’s best to let things go when you can. If you ask me, a private apology should be enough."

"Mmm-hmm!"

Chen Qi hummed and nodded absentmindedly, then headed back inside to continue winding the yarn.

In the Early Hours of the Morning.

While the vast capital city was still asleep, some people were already busy at work.

Outside the printing factory, under the dim glow of a few streetlights, freshly printed newspapers were being loaded onto trucks. Some were delivered to government offices and newspaper stands in the city, some were sent to suburban counties, and others were transported to the post office to be distributed to other provinces.

One batch was delivered to a newspaper stand in Xicheng.

Cao Yulan had woken up early, bringing her own dry rations as she headed to the weaving cooperative organized by the neighborhood committee.

There were over twenty young women working there, knitting sweaters by hand. Customers provided the yarn, and they knitted the garments. Business was booming—they had received more than sixty orders in just a few days and were already overwhelmed with work.

Cao Yulan came from an ordinary family and had an honest nature. She always followed whatever arrangements were made and maintained a diligent attitude toward work.

As dawn approached, she arrived at a street corner.

The newspaper stand was already open, with People’s Daily and Guangming Daily neatly displayed. Usually, they read newspapers at the neighborhood office rather than buying them themselves. But as she glanced over, a bold headline caught her eye:

"The Road of Life—Which Path Should We Take?"

Hmm?

Cao Yulan stopped in her tracks. The road of life? She had never thought about it before.

As if drawn by some unseen force, she walked over and said, “One copy of China Youth Daily, please.”

"Five cents!"

She pulled out a small handkerchief, took out a bill, and handed it over, receiving a newspaper in return.

Further down the street stood a worn-down courtyard, the workspace arranged for them by the neighborhood committee. She was always the first to arrive, opening the doors, tidying up—an extra task that earned her three yuan a month.

Cao Yulan entered, sat on an old wooden crate, and, under the faint morning light, strained her eyes to read.

"I am 19 years old. You could say I’ve only just begun my journey in life... As a child, I heard stories of How the Steel Was Tempered and The Diary of Lei Feng..."

It seemed to be a letter from a young person.

The writer recounted their short but eventful life—childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood.

They wrote about returning to the city, being assigned to a cooperative, selling tea near Qianmen, facing discrimination and ridicule, struggling with feelings of inferiority and confusion.

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

"A person must build their own spiritual home, one that can illuminate even the darkest corners of their heart!"

"And yet, I still believe that life is full of sunshine!"

Cao Yulan held the newspaper close, her eyes scanning each word carefully.

Though she had never met the writer, everything they described felt incredibly familiar—so deeply relatable. And yet, the person who wrote this was so positive, so sincere, so full of kindness and hope.

At the end, they wrote:

"I hope you can face the sea, where spring is warm and flowers bloom."

"Plop... plop..."

Cao Yulan blinked as tears rolled down, soaking into the paper.

She had never thought about it before—or rather, no one had ever said such words to her.

"Face the sea, where spring is warm and flowers bloom."

What was the purpose of living?

Suddenly, a soft yet powerful force struck her heart.

She had studied, worked, gone to the countryside, returned to the city, and continued working—twenty years had passed just like that. It felt as though she had been asleep for a long time, only to wake up and realize she had nothing.

"Yulan, why are you crying?"

"Did someone bully you?"

Just then, another young woman arrived, her voice filled with concern.

"I'm fine... I just feel moved," Cao Yulan said, handing her the newspaper.

Her friend, puzzled, began reading. After a long silence, she looked up, eyes red.

"Yulan, why did you make me read this first thing in the morning..."

"What are you two reading?"

More of their coworkers arrived, one after another, each taking a look—and one by one, they were all moved to tears. Soon, the whole group looked like a gathering of red-eyed rabbits.

"Truly, no one has ever spoken to us like this before!"

"This comrade is the same age as us!"

"Face the sea, where spring is warm and flowers bloom... How beautiful. We’ve never met him, yet he wrote straight into our hearts!"

The young women all nodded in agreement.

"Yes, straight into our hearts!"

Dongcheng.

A cooperative of seventeen people, their work was even more monotonous and tedious—they glued envelopes.

They were all young and full of life, yet they sat here every day, pasting envelopes together. It was even more soul-draining than working on an assembly line, and the atmosphere was usually lifeless. But today was different. Everyone had gathered around, fixated on a newspaper.

"Hey, what do you think the meaning of life is?"

"I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it."

"Me neither. But sitting here gluing envelopes all day certainly isn’t meaningful."

"I really agree with this comrade’s perspective. Selling tea is better than this? We’re still young—who knows what the future holds? Keeping an optimistic mindset and enriching our inner world is really important."

"Hey?"

Someone suddenly said, "Why don’t we write a letter to this comrade? To thank him for speaking our minds."

"Great idea!"

"Quick, get a pen!"

…

China Youth Daily was a major newspaper, a must-read in government offices every day.

In a small office in Haidian, a young man finished reading the article and the interview transcript. He remained silent for a long time. Finally, he spread out a piece of letter paper and, unable to resist, picked up his pen:

"Comrade Chen Qi,

I read about you in the newspaper, and I was deeply moved. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed of my own choices. I had the opportunity to take over my parents’ job, but I didn’t have the courage you had…

I heard that your cooperative is near Qianmen. I’d love to visit you, but I’m afraid of being too abrupt, so I decided to write this letter to the newspaper first, hoping you’ll see it.

If there’s a chance, I’d like to meet you and have a good conversation—I’m sure we have a lot in common.

Looking forward to your reply!"

…

Beijing, Dahua Radio Instrument Factory.

Zheng Yuanjie was 24 years old. After learning how to repair aircraft in the military, he was assigned to work here after retiring. His daily job was adjusting a water pump: one pump, two buttons—press green to release water when clocking in, press red to stop water when clocking out.

A monthly salary of 40 yuan.

He was dating a girl in the factory and really liked her, but she looked down on his elementary school diploma and hoped he would take the university entrance exam to become an educated man.

Zheng Yuanjie thought about it seriously. He felt that taking the exam would be self-inflicted humiliation—not necessary. Naturally, the relationship ended.

He realized that without being a "cultured person," he didn’t even have the right to choose a partner. So he wondered—how could he become one without a diploma?

There was only one answer: writing.

At this moment, he was also reading China Youth Daily and this article. Though he wasn’t particularly drawn to the emotional expressions, he deeply resonated with the confusion and uncertainty described in the piece.

Every generation has its own struggles. The emotions were universal.

Chen Qi.

Zheng Yuanjie memorized the name, then went back to his side project—writing his fairy tale Heihei on Honest Island.

…

Gahe Town, Anhui.

At Gahe High School, 15-year-old Zha Haisheng suddenly shuddered, feeling as if some invisible force had stolen his luck.

He shook his head and continued studying, preparing for the college entrance exam in July.

That’s right—at 15, he was already about to take the exam. And he would go on to be accepted into Peking University’s law department.

…

China Youth Daily had a national circulation of 2 million copies, with Beijing and its surrounding areas being the primary market.

On this day, at least hundreds of thousands of people read this letter and the interview.

People had been suppressing their emotions for too long. They desperately needed an outlet. Even though this opening was just a small c***k, their enthusiasm burned like wildfire. They passed the article around, discussed it, and even actively sought out further engagement.

It was like a piece of sweet, fragrant bread, drawing in the hungry.

No one knew how many people picked up their pens to write to the newspaper, expressing their views on life, all hoping for a response from this young author.

Except for Plastic Factory No. 2.

The factory leaders were also holding the newspaper, their faces turning green.