Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C145

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Chapter 145: Branded with Shame

, the National Salon of Fine Arts, the Salon of Independent Artists, the Blue Salon, and the Tuileries Salon—only a handful of salons have left their mark on European art history.

Initially, these salons served as crucial platforms for showcasing new works and fostering artistic exchange. It was at the (often referred to as "Guo Mei" in Chinese) that was famously rejected.

As information dissemination became more efficient, the exhibition function of salons gradually diminished. The “” Wu Du attended today had evolved into a purely social gathering.

“What’s that you’re holding?” Old Xia’s sharp eyes caught sight of it immediately.

Wu Du smirked knowingly, clutching a copy of under his arm. “There are two interesting pieces in here.”

Old Xia didn’t lower his voice, drawing the attention of other familiar writers. These were authors who enjoyed moderate fame within the Sichuan-Chongqing region but hadn’t achieved national recognition. Among them were prominent contributors to , specializing in revolutionary literature, and modern poets from Poetry News.

“Oh? Did you submit something to Youth Digest?” Old He asked bluntly.

What was this group dynamic? They were comrades bonded by drunken nights and shared boasts about their proudest works.

“No, I’m doing fine at Southwest Mirror,” Wu Du replied. “But these two articles are truly impressive.”

He emphasized his point, flipping open Youth Digest to show them the sections Surprising Archives and Pleasant Reading.

Old Xia, Old He, and the others noticed familiar names— and .

A while back, Wu Du had proudly slapped Park of Yesterday onto their table, much like someone sharing an exclusive piece of gossip. Discovering a prodigious writer was worth bragging about among peers.

“This article has finally been published. Sixteen years old and already in Youth Digest. Let me think… At sixteen, I was probably raiding bird nests,” Old Xia mused. A modern poet and leader of the , he carried the legacy of —a niche yet respected literary circle.

“Can you stop reinforcing stereotypes?” Old He interjected. “Why does every generation reminisce about childhood as either raiding bird nests or fishing in ditches? Why not studying?”

Wu Du turned to him. “So, what were you doing at sixteen?”

“Fishing in ditches!” Old He declared without hesitation. “Two ditches ran by my house, both full of fish. How could I resist?”

But Old He quickly sobered up when he noticed Gu Lu’s second article in the magazine. “—how does it compare to Park of Yesterday?”

“They each shine in their own way,” Wu Du replied.

Intrigued, Old He and Old Xia leaned closer. Could it be that Gu Lu, at such a young age, was already a master storyteller?

The title Moon Stone bore little relation to its content. Its core concept revolved around a “dummy”—a figure perceived differently by everyone. More precisely, it transformed into the person one least wanted to see, driving some to stab it with daggers.

The story began with the protagonist spotting his “mother” on the way to work, culminating in an unexpected twist at the end.

Though not as melancholic as Park of Yesterday, Moon Stone still earned admiration. As the group passed the magazine around, they offered their evaluations—

“Personally, Park of Yesterday feels richer emotionally, earning it a slightly higher rating than Moon Stone. But Moon Stone showcases greater narrative skill.”

“It might be because Gu Lu is still young and hasn’t fully grasped certain complexities. His stories possess a fleeting charm—they don’t delve deeply but remain captivating nonetheless.”

“It’s not about superficiality. Park of Yesterday offers closure, while Moon Stone denies it entirely. The dummy refuses to let go, exploring themes of past versus present. I’m curious—why is someone so young so fixated on these themes?”

“And what about his novella ? What does it explore?”

“I believe The Little Prince also delves into the past. I read it—it’s steeped in sorrow. Finishing it leaves you unsettled.”

The discussion continued, branching into broader topics.

“Ah, thank goodness I spent my childhood fishing in ditches,” Old He suddenly remarked.

Confused, the others looked at him.

“That way, I can tell myself now that Gu Lu’s achievements aren’t extraordinary. If I had started writing at his age, maybe I could’ve done the same. But if I’d begun creating back then, even this self-deception wouldn’t hold up.”

An unconventional compliment.

“Eye-opening, isn’t it, old-timers?” Wu Du said.

Old Xia nodded. “It reminds me of a great man’s words: ‘The world belongs to you, it belongs to us, but ultimately, it belongs to you.’ Who would’ve thought the post-90s generation would start making waves so soon?”

In reality, even the post-80s generation struggled to make significant contributions to literature. And here was Gu Lu already commanding attention.

Hearing everyone praise Gu Lu, Wu Du felt a faint sense of pride—not overwhelming, since he had introduced this prodigy to the Ba Shu Salon. But alas, he sighed inwardly.

“I acted too late.”

He had hoped to guide Gu Lu into Chongqing’s Writers Association, only for the “golden nugget” to shine so brightly that Director Jian whisked him straight into the capital’s Writers Association instead.

The only solace was that Vice Chairman Mo Huaiqi had faced similar setbacks.

“I do have another amusing tidbit,” Wu Du added, capturing everyone’s attention.

“These two pieces—Park of Yesterday and Moon Stone—were rejected by during their review process.”

“That’s nonsense!” “If it were People’s Literature, Contemporary, or Harvest, I’d believe it. Sure, those magazines value literary depth, but Sprout? Never!” “Typical rumor…”

“Actually, it’s true,” Wu Du confirmed. “Not a joke.”

“????” The room buzzed with disbelief. The quality of Park of Yesterday and Moon Stone was undeniable.

Old Xia and Old He exchanged puzzled glances. Their expressions seemed to ask: Is Sprout really that lofty?

Good news travels slowly; bad news spreads like wildfire.

This anecdote, wherever shared, became a source of amusement within the industry—even if most readers remained unaware.

For insider authors submitting to magazines, how many could honestly claim their stories surpassed Moon Stone or Park of Yesterday? Even the most confident believed it was a fifty-fifty toss-up…

“No, no, no! This misunderstanding stems from mismanagement.”

“How could that be? These are clearly outstanding works.”

“All right, understood. Thank you.”

The editor-in-chief of Sprout felt his lungs might burst from frustration. Since morning, friends had flooded him with teasing remarks.

“Long time no see! When did your standards get so high?” Similar jibes abounded.

Finally, a close friend advised him: Sprout’s meteoric rise over recent years had already bred resentment. Best to minimize damage to the magazine’s reputation.

The same incident, repeated twice, cuts deep. In his heart, the editor resolved that Qi Bian—the offending editor—would never regain his position, regardless of past contributions.

Meanwhile, at school, Gu Lu learned from his homeroom teacher that Sprout had invited him to participate in the and offered substantial remuneration for submissions.

The New Concept Essay Competition had produced numerous cases of students entering prestigious universities based solely on their essays, earning it widespread acclaim.

However, Gu Lu was only in tenth grade—and unlike the Peiwen Cup hosted by Peking University, which guaranteed admission for first-prize winners, the New Concept competition held no such guarantees. Even winning first place gave less than a fifty percent chance of securing admission.

After deliberation, Gu Lu responded to Ms. Gao: “Teacher, I think I should focus more on studying—or rather, writing. So I’ll decline.”

The school supported student participation in competitions. For instance, Wei Jiao, known as “Panda Wei,” was preparing to compete in the National Student Standardized Chinese Writing Competition, with ample time provided by the school.

“It’s your decision,” Ms. Gao said. “As for the submission offer—the magazine pays well, but writing depends on inspiration.”

“I understand, Teacher,” Gu Lu replied.

Satisfied she’d done her duty, Ms. Gao let him leave. Feeling cheerful, Gu Lu strode lightly down the hall, where Lu Yi approached to report on the progress of the campus wall project.

Lu Yi’s update was somewhat verbose but boiled down to four words: “Progress is promising.”

“Lu Yi, I know you’re eager, but this can’t be rushed. Prioritize your studies,” Gu Lu reminded her. “Don’t let managing submissions distract you from academics. Your parents will kill me otherwise.”

“No, no!” Lu Yi waved her hands frantically. “I used to spend over forty minutes daily practicing dance routines. Now I’ll use that time for the wall. Besides, I know what’s important. My midterm grades didn’t suffer during dance practice.”

Reassured, Gu Lu asked for the QQ number of the No. 8 High School Wall and added it on his computer—not out of nosiness, but to monitor progress.

“There’s always a way,” Qi Caiwei chimed in.

Back at his seat, Gu Lu furrowed his brow. “Hmm?”

“Lu Yi’s been feeling down lately. I’ve been comforting her every night,” Qi Caiwei explained.

“To no avail until you stepped in, Gu Lu. Suddenly, she’s glowing. That’s what a genius looks like!” Qi Caiwei said.

No wonder his deskmate had seemed sleep-deprived recently. But—did they really not fall asleep mid-conversation?

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