If not for Teacher Xiaomei’s analysis, I would have never understood it.”
Actually, Zhang Ye disagreed with Wang Xiaomei’s understanding. The explanation of how literature may appear useless, but actually had a use to it, was completely opposite of what he felt. It was because it was useless that made literature great. This was what he wanted to express, and probably what Mo Yan wanted to express, as well. However, Zhang Ye did not refute this or give an explanation. If you got it, you got it. If you understood a different meaning, then so be it. There was no need to distinguish. It was up to one’s interpretation. If literature was also one equals one, two equals two, A equals A, B equals B, and did not have multiple interpretations, then literature would not be called literature.
Zhao Guozhou clearly was very interested in that sentence, “Little Zhang, your melody poem was well-written, and your acceptance speech was also very well-said. Not only did you exceed others in poetry, you have even exceeded others in the understanding of literature! Rest assured, no one will ever dare to say that you do not know anything about art!”
Aunt Sun sighed, “Little Zhang sure is formidable. He can write supernatural novels, fairy tales, modern poems and ancient poems. See, even a simple acceptance speech is enough to shock everyone. Hai, is there anything that you do not know how to do?”