In 1925, the renowned writer Shen Congwen was appointed as a lecturer by Hu Shi, who was then the principal of China Public School. Shen Congwen was 26 years old, had only an elementary school education, and had been in the Shanghai literary scene for a short time, yet he had already gained some recognition. When he first stepped onto the podium, facing a full classroom of eager students, the great writer was so nervous that he could not speak a word.
He finished the content prepared for a full class period in just ten minutes. Naturally, the students were puzzled: there was still time left before the end of class, what should they do? Shen Congwen, with a strong sense of self-awareness, did not ramble to fill the time. Instead, he neatly wrote on the blackboard: “This is my first class. There are many people, and I am scared.”
This sincere admission of failure immediately won the students’ goodwill, laughter, and applause. Hu Shi, well aware of Shen Congwen’s knowledge, did not criticize him; instead, he humorously remarked, “Shen Congwen’s first class was a success!”
The sincerity of admitting one’s failure possesses a charm even more compelling than wisdom.