Chapter 92 Literary Authenticity

Chapter 92 Literary Authenticity

Chapter 92 Literary Authenticity

Wang Zixu is not the only one in the world who thinks of Chen Qingluo. In fact, Chen Qingluo, this evildoer, will leave a lot of thoughts wherever he goes.

She was right to return to Xihe incognito. If she hadn't done so, she would have been scheduled with social dinners on the day of her return until she left, and the guests would all be well-known figures, and she couldn't refuse them.

Therefore, Wang Zixu would never run into her on the streets of Xihe, not to mention walking 30,000 steps, or even 60,000 steps, unless he could recognize Chen Qingluo at a glance, who was wrapped tightly in a mask and sunglasses. Only a fool like him would hang around in Xihe for many years without anyone loving him. Wherever Chen Qingluo went, there were always a bunch of people willing to share everything about her.

Li Tingfang said: "Since Qingluo has returned to Xihe, you must keep her under close watch. Shen Jianqiu has already said that she must be kept at the Xihe Literary Festival to support the event."

Ning Chunyan was about to cry: "How come Shen Jianqiu knew about this?"

Li Tingfang smiled and said, "What if that guy is a big leader in Xihe? He is well-informed. It was he who told me that Qingluo was back. I checked with your parents and found that she is at your house."

Ning Chunyan cursed her parents in her heart for being so easy to deal with, and whispered, "This is the critical period for Qingluo's novel, she doesn't want to have any social engagements."

Li Tingfang's tone became serious:

"Do you think I don't know? After listening to your parents talking about her novel, I knew that her work this time would surely shake the literary world. After I heard about it, I immediately called Shen Jianqiu and told her that she could come out to the 'Xihe Literary Club' to calm the situation, but she should not be bothered by other social events and all people and things. Nothing is more important than her novel!"

Ning Chunyan felt warm in his heart and shouted for understanding: "What does Shen Jianqiu say?"

"He said that if anyone was found to be harassing Qingluo's creations, they should call him immediately to report it. He regards Qingluo's creations as a matter of the highest priority."

Ning Chunyan looked at Chen Qingluo. The woman just stretched at this moment. The bra hanging loosely on her arm fell to the ground. She stretched her body like a swan, and her white back showed an enchanting curve.

She was jealous and proud of her best friend. Before her work was born, the whole city could come to its defense; when her work was like a newborn baby that had just come into the world and made its first cry, everyone who had seen it said that this work would eventually shake the world.

If a writer can achieve this, his life will be fulfilled.

Ning Chunyan lowered his voice and said, "Is the Xihe Literary Conference mainly for awarding prizes to the writers who won the essay contest? If Shen Jianqiu also attaches importance to it, will it have a great impact on the Literary Association?"

Li Tingfang said, "Yes, so Lin Feng is under a lot of pressure. If he doesn't get a place this time, there will be even fewer people supporting him in the Cultural Association."

Ning Chunyan asked: "Shen Qingfeng won't come down personally, right?"

Li Tingfang sneered: "He never participates in any essay writing or competition activities. Do you know why? He is afraid of being exposed. But he has thugs."

"Who is the thug?"

"I mentioned it to you last time. His name is Lin Luo. He went to the same school as Lin Feng."

Ning Chunyan could sense that Li Tingfang didn't want to talk about Lin Luo, so the two chatted about Chen Qingluo's novel for a while and then hung up the phone.

Ning Chunyan lifted the quilt. Chen Qingluo turned her back to her and said faintly, "You didn't protect me well."

Ning Chunyan felt aggrieved: "How else can I protect you? I almost carry you out every day. Who knows who leaked your whereabouts? Maybe it's because you ran 30,000 steps that day. Come on, get up!"

She locked Chen Qingluo's arms from behind, which made a certain part of her body appear even bigger. She was jealous and angry and wanted to pull her onto the bed.

"No, I was bitten by the mosquitoes you kept at home."

"I don't keep mosquitoes at home. I only keep Chen Qingluo, who eats for free. And who told you to take off all your clothes?"

"I don't eat for free. I write novels for your whole family to read."

Chen Qingluo turned around and easily pushed Ning Chunyan onto the bed. Ning Chunyan then remembered that this girl could not only create "Beauvoir's Offering", but also run 30,000 steps in one breath. Her physical fitness was beyond reproach. Her small body was no match for her.

She knew why Chen Qingluo wanted to train her body so hard. She said that writing would torture the spirit, and if it did not torture the body equally, the spirit and body would be unbalanced for a long time and eventually become distorted. So great writers either smoke or run long distances. Haruki Murakami is also a long-distance running enthusiast. These are all forms of torturing one's body.

She also knew why Chen Qingluo had to take off her shirt when writing. Because she didn't like any restraints on her body when writing, "taking off clothes makes it easier to get into the mood," she said.

Everything this guy did was actually for writing. She was as persistent as a martyr. Ning Chunyan was fascinated and envious of her persistence. Because she could never do that.

……

At this time, Lin Feng was squatting at the door of his house smoking.

He has recently become crazy about Dafengshou, which costs three yuan a pack. This brand was recommended to him by his good friend Wang Zixu. It is hot and strong, but it is easy to get a headache if you smoke too much. When he is in a high mood, he likes to light one.

He had revised the novel he wrote for the essay competition seven or eight times. Today, when he showed it to Li Tingfang, he was scolded again, saying that it was still too flat and the characters in the novel didn't look like humans but like machines.

When he came back to revise the work in the evening, he felt that his work was getting worse and worse. He went out to take a breath, smoked a cigarette, stared at the filter, and thought of Wang Zixu who recommended this cigarette to him. Then he thought of "Wild Cree" written by Wang Zixu, and then he thought of the female owner of the flower shop.

The more he thought about it, the more he was amazed. He was curious about how Wang Zixu managed to bring a real person into the novel, and make it so lifelike. When he was chatting with the female shop owner, every word she said seemed to be spoken by the wife in the novel herself.

In other words, every word said by the wife in the novel seemed to be what the female owner would say. Even the expression on the female owner's face when she smiled and mentioned "that husband" in her family was exactly the same as described in the novel.

He felt that this was a great talent, just like his amazing memory. As early as after that social event, he felt that Wang Zixu must be an extraordinary person. It was a pity that he had been trapped in that small unit and his talent was wasted by the people around him. It was like burning the piano and cooking the crane.

He took out his cell phone and planned to call Wang Zixu to ask him to help look at his novel and see if he could give some constructive suggestions for revision. But the call didn't go through. He put down the phone and saw Shen Qingfeng's car driving into the yard.

Lin Feng smoked the cigarette butt and squinted his eyes. It was indeed Shen Qingfeng's car. Fortunately, he was squatting under an old locust tree, hiding in the shadows. After he put out the cigarette butt, there was no light source around him. Except for mosquitoes, no one could find him.

He saw Lin Luo sticking his head out of the car, and a well-known member of the Literary Association got in the car. When the car drove out of the yard, the glass window rolled down, and he saw Gou Yingbiao's face flash by again.

Lin Feng was puzzled by the gathering of such an incongruous group of people. But he knew that Shen Qingfeng must have some plot, and this plot might even be related to Wang Zixu.

He called Wang Zixu again, but still couldn't get through. Then he called Li Tingfang, but the voice prompt said the call was ongoing. He became more and more anxious.

……

"Among all the emotional needs of women, the desire to be conquered is always overwhelming. They are more eager to be conquered by a strong individual than to be pleased."

Jean-Paul Sartre was talking to Wang Zixu, who was squatting on the sofa with his head in his hands, enduring the lecture of this ugly man.

"I am not defending myself. I believe that the root of all freedom lies in sexual freedom. Our existence comes from sex. If sex is not free, then existence is not free.

"I have discussed this issue with Beauvoir countless times. Of course, there were confusions and arguments in the process, but in the end we both accepted it. Because she also realized that marriage is a tool used by the ruling class to restrain the people. So we chose not to get married.

"Think about it, is our punishment for cheating severe? It's just a mirage. Marriage is not about restraining each other, it's about restraining oneself. If you can't restrain yourself, then divorce. You Chinese have an old saying, 'Take off your pants and fart.' In my opinion, marriage is the most pants-taking off and farting thing."

Wang Zixu was finally annoyed by his brainwashing: "What on earth do you want to say?"

Sartre said: "Your claim that Beauvoir was blind to me is nonsense. You know, we were not married at all."

"That's just you shirking your responsibility."

"You Chinese have an old saying..."

"Don't use our Chinese ancient sayings casually. You don't understand them." "...It means that when flowers are ready to be plucked, pluck them immediately, and don't wait until there are no flowers left to pluck empty branches."

The prince was fed up with him. Sartre was just like Tang Seng in A Chinese Odyssey. The little prince sat next to Ye Lan, lit his pipe, crossed his legs, and said:

"Don't listen to him. There's an old Chinese saying that goes 'rabbits don't eat grass near their burrows.' If you really listen to him, you'll be laying a permanent landmine."

Sartre started to act innocent again, raised his hands and said, "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just stating a fact. By the way, from my experience, if they give you a chance and you don't take it, you will be resented."

The prince stood up shakily and said, "Stop talking nonsense, let's find a way to get her up there."

Sartre and the little prince spread their hands at the same time: "There is nothing I can do to help you. You have to do it yourself."

These two useless guys. Spirit can never win over matter.

Wang Zixu stared at Ye Lan's defenseless body for a while, feeling at a loss as to where to start. After thinking for a while, he went upstairs and knocked on the poet's door.

After a while, the door opened and the pink-haired girl appeared at the door and asked him what he wanted.

"Can you help me move Mr. Ye? I can't do it by myself."

The poet stared at him with amusement. The little prince rarely showed his vulnerable side, and today he was so fragile and gentle.

Wang Zixu felt that he had been seen through - in fact, it was not that he could not move Ye Lan, but he did not want to move Ye Lan "alone".

And it would be best if the person assisting him was a woman. With a woman as a witness, it would be possible to prove that he did nothing. Sartre could choose not to get married, but he could not give up his innocence.

"All right," the poet agreed, and the prince breathed a sigh of relief.

The two of them helped Ye Lan up from the sofa, each carrying a hand on her shoulder. Ye Lan groaned, half asleep and half awake, and Wang Zixu prayed that she would not vomit.

Ye Lan had a good figure, but he didn't feel sexy at all. The poet said to him through Ye Lan:
"Everyone thinks you and Mr. Ye have that kind of relationship."

Prince Xu showed a look of disgust: "Who thought that?"

"Everyone."

"Who are you?"

"Yingjiang, Xinzhe, Xiaoba, Chengxing, and the aunt who helped us cook."

It's everyone. This is too outrageous. How did the cooking lady get involved?
Wang Zixu said, "That is absolutely not the case."

The poet said, “But they said that you went out with Ms. Ye, and when you came back, there were lipstick marks on your clothes.”

"Who said that?"

"them."

"who are they?"

"Sakura-chan and the believer."

Wang Zixu secretly took note of these two people in his heart and decided to give them a good training the next day.

"It's not a lipstick mark, it's chili oil." Wang Zixu explained.

The poet asked: "Why is it spicy oil?"

"Because we were eating spicy noodles outside."

The poet thought for a while, shook his head, and said, "I would rather believe that you two were sitting outside kissing than that you two were sitting outside eating spicy noodles. The latter is more literary and realistic."

"..."

After sending Ye Lan back to her own bed, the poet waved his hand at the prince and said, "Leave the rest to me. I'll take care of her."

Wang Zixu said sincerely: "You are a good person. I thought you were very rebellious before."

The poet said, "You are a nice person. I used to think you were an expert in love."

Both of them felt ashamed of their superficiality. Before leaving, Wang Zixu turned back and reminded her: "At least help her take off her high heels."

"why?"

"Because if you wear high heels all night, your feet will be swollen when you wake up the next day."

“Chungking Express?”

"What is Chungking Express?"

The poet waved his hand at him unhappily, and the prince closed the door. Standing in front of the door, Sartre put his face on his shoulder in a cute way:
"I'll make a bet with you. Ye Lan will definitely pick a fight with you tomorrow."

"Don't make any noise. I'm thinking."

The poet's words just now enlightened him. He vaguely grasped a flaw in his own writing.

He quickly went downstairs, turned on all the lights in the living room, then quickly cleared the coffee table, turned back and picked up several books from the bookshelf, including "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle", "My Name is Red", "The Green House", "Madame Bovary"...

Sartre looked at him curiously: "What are you doing?"

"I found that my past creations were too 'conventional'." Wang Zixu lowered his head and flipped through the book. "Ning Chunyan is right. I took serious novels too seriously. I always restricted myself and always wanted to write something 'pure'. But in fact, this is very disadvantageous."

He slammed the books on the table one by one: "Look, in these books, there are stories about wives cheating on their wives, stories about cheating on their wives, stories about murdering their husbands after cheating on their wives, stories about brothels, stories about military prostitutes, stories about murders for love... These are all Nobel Prize-winning works. These books contain some, some..."

He tried to organize his words and finally said, "Some very exciting content. These contents are very literary and realistic, or typical. People like to read these things. But these are exactly what I avoided before."

Sartre nodded and said, "Of course, Thunderstorm tells the story of an affair between a brother and a sister. Dream of the Red Chamber also has the story of the adulterous Tianxiang Tower. In my Confinement, there are only three people, but the stories are also very exciting."

The little prince counted on his fingers and said, "The Red and the Black tells of adultery, and Crime and Punishment tells of murder and wrongful killing. In fact, serious novels are not lacking in sensory stimulation."

Wang Zixu became more and more excited as he spoke: "When I was writing the script, I didn't have this mental barrier, so the works created by the Little Prince were very popular. People should not restrict themselves, all they need to do is find a balance in the middle."

Sartre and the little prince looked at each other: "He has understood."

(End of this chapter)