The shopping mall had set up temporary stalls in the open space by Entrance 3.
“Special Clearance on Books,” 9.9 yuan/jin (approx. 500g): The Encyclopedia of Healthy Recipes, A Guide to Food Pairings and Prohibitions. “Children’s Book Clearance,” 20 yuan/jin: Encyclopedia of Chinese Geography, Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Calabash Brothers. “Novel Clearance,” 22 yuan/jin: Nezha: Past Stories of the Three Realms, The Details of Law, The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles.
Lin Song circled the bookstall three and a half times, scanning the titles one by one. Among the books piled on the tables, there were a few scattered ones he had read.
Recently, while memorizing the Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng, people had often recommended he try memorizing Su Shi’s poetry. However, after looking them up, Lin Song found that Su Dongpo’s poems weren’t very long; they didn’t offer the same satisfying challenge as memorizing the nearly 800 characters of the Preface.
Wedged between novels by Mo Yan and Yu Hua was a copy of The Biography of Su Dongpo, and the author was, surprisingly, Lin Yutang. Below Lin Yutang’s name was another: a translator named “Zhang Zhenyu.”
“A translation?” Lin Song thought. “Did Lin Yutang write this book in English?” The name “Zhang Zhenyu” was completely unfamiliar to him, and for a moment, he felt acutely aware of his own ignorance.
Judging by the presence of a translator, The Biography of Su Dongpo must have been written in English, much like C.T. Hsia’s famous A History of Modern Chinese Fiction. The version Lin Song later read was also a Chinese translation.
Lin Song naturally admired these literary masters who were versed in both Chinese and Western studies. Moreover, he had recently taken a keen interest in the details of Su Shi’s life, so he picked up a copy of The Biography of Su Dongpo from the table.
All the books on the tables were shrink-wrapped in plastic film. You could see the author on the front cover and the reviews on the back, but not a single one could be opened to browse the contents. He wondered if this was a strategy adopted by the book industry to deal with readers who would linger in bookstores for hours, reading without buying. Of course, Lin Song hadn’t set foot in a bookstore in years; in the city where he lived, there were no longer any bookstores that could entice him to spend his time there.
Lin Song weighed The Biography of Su Dongpo in his hand. It felt like it was about one jin. “That’s a new novel, 22 yuan a jin. You can put it on the scale.” Next to the “Special Clearance” sign at the edge of the table sat an electronic scale. A woman who worked there guided Lin Song through the weighing process. “Exactly 1 jin. That’s 22 yuan.”
Lin Song was still hesitating, wondering if he should check the price on Taobao. But faced with the already-weighed book, he was too embarrassed to say no. He felt as if he had been checkmated. As awkward as it was, it was his own doing. If he hadn’t picked up the book in the first place, the woman wouldn’t be urging him to pay.
It was not with complete willingness that Lin Song took out his phone to scan the payment QR code resting on a pile of books. “How much is this book?” He asked, knowing the answer, hoping the woman might offer a discount. “New novels, 22 yuan a jin. This one is exactly 1 jin.” Indeed, the electronic scale displayed “1 jin,” not “500g.”
Lin Song was a bit baffled. How could it be so precise, exactly 1 jin? But then he thought, well, so what if it’s 1 jin. Doesn’t Su Dongpo deserve the price of one jin?
After paying, Lin Song tore off the plastic film and stuffed it, along with the colorful book jacket, into the trash can next to the stall. A plain, clean copy of The Biography of Su Dongpo like this looked much more refreshing.
In ancient times, it was considered a rather shameful affair for a scholar to make a living by writing and selling their words. They were trained in statecraft and the arts of ruling, with the goal of serving the nation. A life of ghostwriting on the streets was a last resort after one’s dignity had been swept away.
The Southern Dynasties poet Xie Lingyun once boasted: “If all the literary talent in the world amounted to one shi (a unit of measure), Cao Zhi alone would possess eight-tenths of it, I would have one-tenth, and all others under heaven would share the final tenth.” It’s fair to praise Cao Zhi, but to claim he shared the rest of the world’s talent was simply too arrogant.
Of course, this was perhaps forgivable. He did not live in the age of Su Dongpo. Otherwise, he probably would not have been able to utter such conceited words.
After reading a letter written by Su Dongpo, Ouyang Xiu once said to his son, “Thirty years from now, no one in the world will speak of me anymore.”
The great figures of the Song Dynasty era often entered officialdom through the imperial examinations; Ouyang Xiu, Fan Zhongyan, Wang Anshi, and Su Shi were all such men. Among them, Su Shi was the most dazzling. He became a jinshi (a successful candidate) at the age of twenty, ranking near the top among 388 candidates and becoming renowned throughout the land as one of the nation’s foremost scholars.
Not only was his writing masterful, but he was also handsome. It is said that Dongpo was born with a high forehead and a well-proportioned jaw and face. He was not only dashing and upright but also strong and robust.
Su Dongpo was born with the charisma of an “influencer.” He was extremely well-liked and of excellent character, interacting with princes and generals, apothecaries, tavern keepers, and illiterate village women alike. His closest companions were poet-monks, anonymous Daoists, and wandering friends who were even poorer than he was. He loved the honors of officialdom, yet he was happiest when he could blend into a crowd, unrecognized by anyone.
If Su Dongpo’s life already shone so brilliantly, then what is the point of writing about it now?