Chapter 00009: The Path of Life, Part 2
# The Path of Life, Part 2
Chapter 9
Novel: 1979 Golden Age
Chapter 9: The Path of Life, Part 2
Early the next morning, Chen Qi skipped work again.
Starting from Menkuang Hutong, he followed the central axis northward, passing the Forbidden City, Beihai Park, and Shichahai, all the way to Haidian District.
Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, and passersby couldn't help but feel sorry for him as they watched him pedal his old bicycle.
Who would ride a bike like that in such weather?
Chen Qi snorted.
A bike others wouldn’t dare ride like this, he stood up and pedaled with all his might! Not only did he stand up, but he also rode with his legs spread wide—a technique kids used when they were too short to reach the pedals properly.
The journey wasn’t short, about 12 kilometers in total.
When he arrived at Jimen Bridge on the North Third Ring Road, he found himself near the Beijing Film Academy and the Beijing Film Studio.
This area was also home to several universities, including Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, Beijing Normal University, and Beihang University.
A little further was Zhichun Road, where Commander Yao had once fought!
This was the third location of the Beijing Film Studio, and the most familiar one to Chen Qi.
The buildings were in Soviet-style architecture, and at the entrance stood a statue of three workers, peasants, and soldiers.
In twenty years, a man named Wang Baoqiang would be spotted here, waiting for his big break...
Chen Qi parked his bike and walked to the guardhouse at the entrance.
He knocked on the window and called out, “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 thought I’d deliver it myself to save the postman some trouble.”
The old man took the brown paper envelope and glanced at it.
This kind of thing happened often, so he was about to set it aside when Chen Qi handed him half a pack of cigarettes with a cheeky grin. “Here, sir, have a smoke. Thanks for your help!”
“Hmm, leave it there.”
The cigarettes were called Daqianmen, a mid-tier brand costing 32 cents a pack.
Chen Qi had stolen them from his father, Chen Jianjun’s private stash.
Daqianmen was decent, but the high-end brands like Dahua Zhonghua cost 72 cents a pack, while Xiaohua Zhonghua was 62 cents, usually reserved for special occasions.
There was also a brand called Hengda from Tianjin, also 32 cents a pack.
The old man was practical.
He took the cigarettes and got to work.
He grabbed a small blackboard and wrote a line on it: “Manuscript submission for the Literature Department’s Film Creation!”
“Thank you!” Chen Qi said, hopping back on his bike and speeding off to the China Youth Daily office to submit his article, “The Path of Life.” He didn’t bother with People’s Daily because they might not publish such an article, but the China Youth Daily would definitely run it—it was their kind of content.
The China Youth Daily had a circulation of 2 million copies, making it the most widely distributed newspaper in the country.
Chen Qi spent the entire morning delivering manuscripts.
By noon, he was done and slowly pedaled back along the central axis, stopping in front of the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall.
The memorial hall had opened on September 9, 1977. In his previous life, Chen Qi had first visited Beijing in 1998, during the World Cup.
He remembered it clearly because he had come with his family and visited the memorial hall.
He knew the layout: the front hall held a seated statue of Chairman Mao, while the back hall housed the crystal coffin.
There was always a long line outside the memorial hall, with many visitors from out of town, dressed in black and looking somber—after all, it had only been three years since Mao’s passing.
Chen Qi stood outside for a while, gazing at the memorial hall but didn’t go in.
Then he returned to the tea stall, apologizing with a grin, saying he had a stomachache or something.
No one made a big deal of it—after all, he had already made a name for himself the day before.
There was still no word from Auntie Wang.
Whether she was really communicating with the higher-ups or just pretending, Chen Qi didn’t know.
But he had already submitted his manuscript, so he was content.
…………
At the China Youth Daily office, the atmosphere was jubilant.
The newspaper, founded in 1951, had been suspended for a time but resumed publication in 1978. It was the official newspaper of the Communist Youth League, targeting young readers, and its name had been inscribed by Chairman Mao himself, giving it significant influence.
Recently, the paper had made a bold move by serializing a once-banned book called The Second Handshake, condensing it to 60,000 words and publishing it in daily installments.
The response was overwhelming.
People lined up at newsstands every day, and in Shanghai, eager readers even broke the glass of a post office in their frenzy to get a copy.
The novel touched on sensitive topics like leaders, intellectuals, love, and overseas connections—taboo subjects at the time.
The author had been sentenced to death, but luckily, the Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee intervened before the sentence could be carried out.
Later, the novel was published as a book and sold over 4 million copies, a record that stood for many years.
“Xiao Li, what’s that you’ve got?”
“Reader letters!”
“Another sackful?”
“More than that!”
In the editorial office, a young editor dropped a bulging sack of letters on the floor, then went out and came back with two more sacks, panting, “I’m done! I’m an editor, not a laborer!”
“It just shows how passionate our readers are!”
“Exactly, and our circulation has gone up too.”
Everyone was proud of their newspaper’s status as the most widely read in the country.
“But The Second Handshake is almost done. What’s next?”
“How about the知青合作社? It’s a hot topic right now.”
“We could do that, but most of the articles I’ve seen are too dry. We can’t make it sound like government documents. People want something lively and sincere.”
“I’ve got something here…”
An older editor stood up, holding a letter. “This came in today. Take a look.”
The young editor took it first and read the title: The Path of Life, Why Does It Feel Like It’s Getting Narrower?
“Oh, a heartfelt essay!”
He was intrigued.
In these tense times, who dared to express their feelings so openly? Everyone had been holding back for so long, and now that the floodgates had opened, emotions were pouring out—both their own and others’.
“I’m 19 years old, just starting out in life, but I already feel utterly exhausted, as if I’ve reached the end. When I was young, I heard stories about How the Steel Was Tempered and Lei Feng’s Diary. Though I didn’t fully understand them, the heroic deeds kept me awake at night. I even copied Pavel’s famous words about the meaning of life into the first page of my diary: ‘When I look back on my life, I won’t regret wasting my years, nor will I be ashamed of having achieved nothing…’ When I filled one diary, I copied it into a second one. Those words gave me so much encouragement! Then came the人道洪流 (Cultural Revolution), and… well, let’s skip that. After returning to the city, I was assigned to work at a street collective cooperative. Along with twelve others, I set up a tea stall at Qianmen, selling tea and trying to make a living. I yearned for truth, goodness, and beauty, but I was disappointed. Social prejudice made it hard for our little tea stall to survive. On our first day, we worked hard despite our shyness and unfamiliarity, only to be mocked by workers from a nearby plastic factory. They called us drifters, ex-convicts, and even sang ‘Abaraguku’ at us… One of the girls cried, but there was nothing we could do. Deep down, we knew they were right. We felt inferior, unable to compare with those in state-owned enterprises. We didn’t expect much—just to make a living through our labor. But the pain and confusion in our hearts grew every day, becoming unbearable. I often wonder, what is the purpose of life? To uphold noble beliefs? To realize our own worth? Those things seem so far away. Some say the times are moving forward, but I can’t feel their powerful embrace. The path of life… why does it feel like it’s getting narrower? But I still have the strength to keep going… I may not be able to articulate the meaning of life right now, but based on my own experience, I believe building an inner spiritual home is crucial. It can shine like the sun, illuminating the darkest corners of our hearts. It could be literature, painting, poetry, music, or even carpentry, tailoring, fishing—anything that creates a world uniquely ours, something we’re passionate about. That passion gives us strength. I’ve loved literature since I was a child. It’s the sunlight that brightens my life. Dear editors, I’m not writing to seek advice or solutions. I just want young people across the country to see this. I believe our hearts are connected. I hope to encourage all those who feel lost and confused. May we all break free from our temporary hardships and face the sea, where spring brings flowers in full bloom!”
…………
The letter was passed around the editorial office.
Each person who read it sighed softly.
The writing was simple, the emotions deep, and it expressed the author’s longing for home—no, wait! It expressed the author’s confusion and the strength to keep moving forward.
It was incredibly sincere.
Yes, sincere.
“What do you think?”
“It’s good. It’ll definitely resonate with people.”
“Didn’t they mention setting up a tea stall at Qianmen? Hey, send a reporter to interview them! I want this in tomorrow’s paper!”
(Thanks to Hua Bixuan and Yu Xian Qitian for their support…)
(End of Chapter)