456: Chapter 456 The Autumn of the Literati: There Should Be a Backbone

The Tall Male Student pushed the letter paper forward by half an inch; the ink from his carbon pen shimmered in the autumn sun.

His posture steadied once again.

Earlier, Xu Changge had deconstructed the poem too ruthlessly, leaving him unable to respond.

Now, he had finally dragged this battlefield back from novel narration and reader reception into the rules of traditional poetry.

Tonal patterns, Poetic Metre, imagery, and allusions.

He had held these rulers for many years.

In his view, Lin Que's earlier critique based on "reader reception" had already revealed his hand.

No matter how good one's literary attainments were, when switched to the track of traditional poetry, one was just an outsider who couldn't even touch the threshold.

Dozens of mobile phone lenses around them were all aimed squarely at Lin Que.

Some were taking photos, some were recording videos, and others had already casually opened the Note Live streaming app.

The young man in the navy blue hoodie was framed right in the center of the screen.

Lin Que's gaze dropped.

He looked at the neat handwriting on the paper.

"The rustling autumn wind sweeps the azure sky, withered lotus and fallen leaves fill the east of the lake."

His gaze lingered on those two lines for a long time.

So long that the people holding their phones couldn't help but push their lenses forward by an inch.

"Why isn't he speaking?"

"Traditional poetry is really not something one can just touch just because they can write novels."

"If he crashes and burns on the live stream, half of his champion filter will shatter, right?"

The number of people in the Note Live streaming room jumped from dozens to hundreds, and the comments scrolled faster and faster.

[Don't be silent, give us a critique.]

[A novel champion touching traditional poetry—that's indeed a bit of a stretch.]

[This guy from the Renmin University Poetry Society has some substance; his Poetic Metre is at least stable.]

A middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap lowered his voice and said to the person beside him:

"Specialization is key; in matters of crossing boundaries, nine out of ten will crash and burn."

Chen Jiahao's temples were throbbing.

He would rather be mocked to his face by the Tall Male Student right now than endure these lenses pressing in as if waiting to see Lin Que fail.

The douzhi cup in his hand was crinkling as he squeezed it, the sour taste of the douzhi mixed with his anger, rushing straight up his throat.

He took a step forward, his mouth already open.

A hand reached out from the side and firmly pressed down on his shoulder.

Xu Changge.

He didn't use force, just gently suppressed the impulse that was about to drive Chen Jiahao to rush out.

Speaking up for Lin Que at this moment would only drag the situation back into a verbal dispute.

Since Lin Que was silent, he must be waiting for a more suitable landing point.

His gaze landed on Lin Que's profile, not moving an inch.

There was no worry or nervousness in those eyes.

Only an extremely pure sense of anticipation.

The wall in 'folding beijing', the spark in 'rural teacher', the root system of civilization like 'ants moving sand' in front of Elder Cui.

These things flashed through Xu Changge's mind.

Watching Lin Que's quiet profile, he felt steadier in his heart instead.

A seven-character quatrain piled with sorrowful imagery could not trap this person.

His hand pressing on Chen Jiahao's shoulder did not let go; the force was not great, but the meaning was very clear.

Wait.

Seeing that Lin Que remained silent for a long time, the Tall Male Student's smile deepened by another fraction.

He pulled back the letter paper, let it hang by his side, pressed his lips into a shallow arc, but kept his voice gentle.

"Student Lin, if you feel the time is rushed, there is no need to force it."

He pushed up his glasses, his voice very flat, yet every word was captured by the lenses.

"After all, 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition' examines novels, not traditional poetry. There is no need for a champion to prove themselves in every field."

He paused, scanned the crowd, and added as if being considerate.

"Just give a casual critique; everyone won't be overly demanding."

This sounded decent on the surface, but to the ears, it was like a set of paved steps.

At the end of the steps, there was no retreat, only a line recorded by the lenses:

—Even a champion has things they don't know.

Chen Jiahao's teeth ground together with a squeak.

The gaze under Dan Yi's cap was cold enough to freeze someone to death.

Lin Que stood in place, his gaze still on the letter paper.

But he was not looking at the words.

His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

Rustling autumn wind. Withered lotus and fallen leaves. A lonely pagoda and setting sun. Cold crows in the vast sky.

Sorrow. Cold. Dark. Empty.

Four lines of poetry, four shades of gray, as if all the pigments related to autumn had been poured from the same jar, covering the entire sheet of paper.

Lin Que suddenly felt it was a pity.

The Poetic Metre of this poem was indeed stable, and the tonal patterns were correct.

Placed in the creation of traditional poetry in this world, it was enough to be considered standard.

But its bones were too short.

The scholars of this world writing about autumn could almost never bypass that old path.

Song Yu initiated the sorrow of autumn, Du Fu wrote of autumn's excitement, Li Qingzhao listened to the fine rain on the parasol trees.

Writing all the way down, the autumn wind was full of lingering sorrow.

Over time, sorrow became profound, and bleakness became the orthodox.

As if whoever looked up in autumn appeared shallow.

Too many people writing about autumn were habitually trapped in the shadow cast by this iron rule.

They treated sorrow as profound, bleakness as sophisticated,

And moved twilight, cold crows, withered lotus, and setting sun onto paper over and over again.

Because in this world, no one had ever told them that autumn does not have to be sorrowful.

In another stretch of the literary river he knew, someone had once done it.

That person was in a place of exile, yet he did not lower his head into the autumn wind.

He looked up at the sky and forcefully wrote all the lingering sorrowful sounds into a clear, resonant roar.

From then on, the autumn of Chinese scholars had an extra backbone.

Lin Que slowly withdrew his gaze.

He raised his head and met the Tall Male Student's gaze.

"Your poem, the Poetic Metre is fine."

Lin Que's speaking pace was slow and steady.

"The structure is stable, the imagery is chosen skillfully; if put into any club poetry gathering, it wouldn't look bad."

The Tall Male Student's eyebrows raised.

Lin Que looked at him.

"The problem lies right here."

"It is too safe."

As this sentence fell, a burst of fragmented discussion sounded around them.

The Tall Male Student's smile deepened, and he was about to say something.

Lin Que continued.

"Its problem is not that it is bad."

The Tall Male Student's smile froze for a moment.

"Withered lotus, fallen leaves, setting sun, cold crows."

Lin Que recited them one by one, his tone flat.

"I have heard these images no less than five times around this display board today."

"Every time someone talks about autumn, the first word that pops out of their mouth is 'sorrow'."

He looked at the Tall Male Student.

"Have you ever thought about a question?"

The Tall Male Student's fingers tightened on the letter paper.

"Why must writing about autumn be sorrowful?"

The pavilion corridor was silent for two seconds.

The Tall Male Student frowned.

"This is a literary tradition of thousands of years. Later scholars have inherited it to this day, and an aesthetic consensus has long been reached."

"Consensus?"

Lin Que repeated.

The Tall Male Student's eyes brightened, as if he had finally grasped the hilt to press back, and his voice was much steadier than before.

"Since Song Yu, the sorrow of autumn has been the most stable line in the literary lineage."

"Plants withering and falling, the world turning bleak, the human heart feeling the times—this is the most basic emotional order in classical poetry."

He glanced at the mobile phones raised around him and raised his tone by another half.

"Student Lin can certainly propose new views, but if it is just to oppose tradition for the sake of opposing tradition, that is not innovation; it is frivolity."

As this sentence fell, a low intake of breath sounded in the pavilion corridor.

The comments in the live streaming room instantly became dense.

[That's a bit harsh.]

[Does that mean the champion doesn't understand tradition?]

[He dares to question the tradition of autumn sorrow? How will Lin Que respond this time?]

Chen Jiahao's expression sank.

Dan Yi took half a step forward, the gaze under the cap as cold as frost.

Xu Changge did not move.

His gaze landed on Lin Que, and the anticipation in his eyes became even brighter.

Lin Que looked at the Tall Male Student.

"So, in your view, autumn is naturally supposed to be sorrowful?"

The Tall Male Student paused.

"At least in classical poetry, the sorrow of autumn is the most orthodox and profound expression."

Lin Que nodded gently.

"Profound."

He repeated it again.

"Then what if someone writes about autumn without writing about withered lotus, without writing about fallen leaves, without writing about the setting sun or cold crows, and without writing themselves into sorrow?"

The Tall Male Student said subconsciously:

"Student Lin means that everyone has walked the wrong path in this literary lineage of autumn sorrow?"

This question was extremely heavy.

All the mobile phone lenses around were aimed steadily at Lin Que.

The number of people in the live streaming room was still jumping up, but the comments slowed down eerily.

Everyone was waiting for his answer.

Lin Que turned around to face the crowded room.

"Tradition is not wrong."

"It's just that there are already enough people who have walked through the autumn wind with their heads lowered."

"Outside of tradition, someone should also look up."

The pavilion corridor was so quiet that only the lake breeze remained.

Lin Que stood by the corridor pillar, looking up at the azure sky above Beihai.

The autumn sky was high and far, blue and clean, translucent.

The lake breeze pushed over from the water, sending the sweetness of osmanthus flowers and the coolness of water vapor into the pavilion corridor.

The tip of the white pagoda in the distance shimmered with golden light in the sun, and the lake surface was blown into fine ripples by the wind.

At this moment, all the withered lotus, setting sun, and cold crows were gently pushed aside from his mind.

"This poem."

"It does not write about withered lotus, it does not write about the setting sun, and it does not bow its head to autumn."

...