The Soul is Love

Shen Xingye practically bristled. "Huh? You're going to lecture me? How condescending. Fine, come on—I'd like to see what guidance you have to offer!"

Shi Tiexin did not yield an inch. "Simple. In one sentence: your novels are utterly incomprehensible and a complete mess."

"Ah? You, you, you're talking nonsense! How is my art incomprehensible? How is it a complete mess? The stuff you write is what's incomprehensible, what's a complete mess!" Shen Xingye swept up his books and papers, fury beyond restraint. "Look at your work—cheaply courting attention. Does it have even a shred of depth? Even a hint of the romantic spirit of literary art? People read your stuff and move on, forgetting it in the blink of an eye. Trash—literary trash!"

Shi Tiexin readily admitted it. "I'll grant you that the things I casually write don't have much romantic feeling. Honestly, even I can't stand looking at them. But what about you? Does that make you so damn great? Mine might make people forget after reading them, so they're trash. Yours make people not even want to read them. They're worse than trash."

"Y-you-you-you!" Shen Xingye pointed at him, nearly going into spasms. "That's just other people's taste..."

"Oh, cut it out. It's not a matter of taste. Your skill just isn't good enough." Shi Tiexin posed a question to his very soul. "If you think your work is art, the gold standard, then let me ask you: can your work make people lose themselves completely?"

"Can it leave them with endless aftertaste?"

"Can it teach them something, make them deeply immersed in feeling?"

"Do you still remember when you were intoxicated by literature? Those things you treasured like jewels—could you not put them down? Did they keep you awake through the night? Did you feel every