Chapter 80: Of All the Talent in the World, Yulang Holds Eight-Tenths (Part Five)

“You mean to say you alone will revive the art of seven-character verse?”

“Why not?”

“Did I hear that right?”

Ruan Yu eyed him with a smile that was half mocking, half amused, his face betraying a barely concealed scorn.

The hall erupted in astonishment.

“Arrogant, too arrogant.”

“I admit Zhang Yu is talented, but to claim he alone can rescue seven-character poetry from its mire... Absurd.”

“Even Master Cai would not dare utter such words! I once admired him, but he’s nothing but a grandstander, exaggerating for effect!”

Zhang Yu heard every word, yet remained unruffled.

With the system in his grasp, while circumstances meant he couldn’t defeat ten men at once, to produce ten seven-character poems was a trivial task.

You say seven-character verse is vulgar? There are countless masterpieces across the ages—I shall hurl them forth, one by one!

I will elevate this misunderstood and maligned form, make it noble and glorious!

Zhuge Kongming once debated all the scholars; today, I, Zhang Yu, will subdue them with poetry, and make my name resound in Chang’an.

Ruan Yu, wearing the smile of a victor, returned to his seat. To him, Zhang Yu’s words placed him in the eye of the storm—a desperate struggle, a path to self-destruction.

“Master Zhang, I have some advice to offer,” said Xu Gan.

“Please, Brother Wei Chang, speak freely.”

“I greatly admire your seven-character verse, especially ‘Farewell to Elder Brother.’ The last two lines are extraordinary, surely a work for the ages.

Though seven-character verse is deemed vulgar, it can be made elegant, can enter the halls of the great, can sweep the world. But this cannot be achieved by one or two alone—it requires the effort of an era’s worth of scholars.”

Xu Gan stood and gazed at Zhang Yu. “May I ask, Master Zhang, do you truly aspire, alone, to revive seven-character poetry against the tide?”

“That is indeed my intent!”

I carry the vision of two thousand years, armed with unmatched talent—how can it be called the work of one man?

“In that case... count me in.”

“What?”

“I, Xu Gan of the Eastern Sea, am willing to join you, Zhang Yu of Zhongshan, to devote myself to ushering in the golden age of seven-character verse.”

Scholars crave fame; to add a brick to the edifices of four- and five-character poetry is one thing, but to see seven-character verse rise, win renown, and become a literary pioneer and sage—what greater allure? Yet for Xu Gan to stand up and defend me now, it feels as if he is ‘defying the world for my sake.’ Whatever his motives, warmth filled Zhang Yu’s heart.

As he was moved, Wang Can also rose and spoke: “Gentlemen, if I may add a word.”

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“As Brother Wei Chang said, the rise of a literary form is never the work of one man or even one generation. Take the art of the fu: Grand Tutor Jia only just entered the hall; Sima Xiangru, dazzling in talent, barely passed through the door. Zhang Yu’s talent I deeply respect, but this is near impossible.”

“This—”

“Therefore, count me in as well.”

“What?” Zhang Yu and Xu Gan were both stunned.

“I, Wang Can, met you two today and felt an instant kinship. I wish to join you, Zhang Yu and Brother Wei Chang, in pursuing this grand undertaking, though it may seem impossible!”

“Excellent!” The gathering was a banquet, not a private meeting; with Cai Yong and a dozen scholars present, Zhang Yu refrained from too flamboyant a declaration, merely exchanged smiles with the two, and sat down.

To attend this feast, gain two true friends, and realize the connection between era and literary form—what more could he ask?

The atmosphere in the hall shifted; after the three had spoken, the open mockery diminished, though almost everyone still wore an expression of disdain.

“Zhang Yu, Wei Chang, Zhong Xuan.” At last, Cai Yong spoke.

“Your ambition inspires me as well, but passion must be tempered with careful deliberation. As the saying goes, ‘Plan before you act; blind courage achieves nothing.’

What Yuan Yu said earlier was overly blunt and somewhat extreme, but not without merit.

The ‘Book of Han: Records of Literature’ says: ‘The Book says: Poems express aspirations; songs are sung words.’ Thus, feelings of sorrow or joy evoke song, the words recited are called poetry, and the melody sung is called song.

For poetry and song, the emotion should be profound, the language should not be vulgar—only then can it be called poetry.

How many seven-character verses today achieve this? Few indeed consider seven-character verse poetry at all.”

Cai Yong turned to Zhang Yu. “Even if you possess extraordinary talent, and Wei Chang and Zhong Xuan produce fine works, how can you resist the tide of this era? It is difficult!

To persist in seven-character composition is fine, but do not neglect your talents in fu and five-character verse.”

Action is always the best answer.

“The seven-character verses I’ve memorized don’t even require the system’s help,” Zhang Yu thought, then smiled at Cai Yong. “Thank you for your guidance. If I were to devote my life to a single form, even as a master, it would not be my wish.”

“As long as you understand.”

“But perhaps my ambition is too great—five-character poetry comes easily to me, and I am determined to become a master of seven-character verse as well.”

Disregarding the clamor, Zhang Yu gazed at the bright moon outside the window and softly recited, “The moonlight before my window—”

“I see it too.”

“Is that even poetry?”

Hearing such remarks, Zhang Yu smiled and continued: “Seems like frost upon the ground.”

“Shallow, empty, crude!”

“But... this is five-character verse.”

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“Raising my head, I gaze at the moon!”

“...Still seems trivial, yet somehow it sounds pleasing.”

“Lowering my head, I yearn for home.”

With the poem recited, all discussion ceased, even Ruan Yu fell silent in contemplation.

“This is ‘Quiet Night Thoughts,’ written by my dear friend Li Bai. I believe it is much like my ‘Two yellow orioles sing in green willow.’ At first, it seems ordinary, so simple even a child or elder might say, ‘I could write that,’ undeniably ‘vulgar.’

Yet when the whole poem is finished, there is a sudden clarity—the emotion is woven into the scene, the imagery and feeling are one. It is a superb work, beyond argument of elegance or vulgarity.

Crude and simple can also be refined and concise; simplicity of language, five-character verse excels!

Vulgarity or elegance, coarseness or sophistication, are not the fault of the form, but of the author, the content!

Even the refined art of fu can be composed with lewd or frivolous words—does that make fu vulgar? Should we abandon the form for fear of its misuse?”

Zhang Yu’s words brought many silent nods; it was Wang Tang who spoke up:

“What Master Zhang says is reasonable, but it does not address Brother Yuan Yu’s argument. Brother Yuan Yu admires your seven-character verse, but was speaking of the current state of seven-character poetry.”

“What state is that?”

“Amusement and jest, songs of the market, rhymes of the street and alley.” He remembered the phrase well.

“So, Brother Wang, how should seven-character verse be revived?”

Wang Tang was undoubtedly frustrated—his early attempt to shine ended in embarrassment, his criticisms turned against him. Now, seeing Zhang Yu, the evening’s star, humbly seeking his advice, he was overjoyed.

All who gathered here were truly talented; Wang Tang was simply unlucky.

In a brief moment, he composed a lengthy argument, believing it to be well-cited and unassailable.

Clearing his throat, he declared confidently, “If seven-character verse is to rise in this era, it must be supported by excellent works—”

“I have those.”

“One or two are not enough,” seeing Zhang Yu ready to respond, he quickly added, “Ten or twenty are still not enough—”

“As many as needed, I have them!”

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