The fifteenth day of the eighth month. Mid-Autumn Festival.
Today, the moon was at its fullest of the year. Since ancient times, countless scholars had written poems praising the Mid-Autumn moon, and many of those verses had delighted generations of readers and been passed down through the ages.
Though Pan Long studied martial arts, he had memorized plenty of those poems too. Compared with poems about the moon from another world, he thought the ones here were probably better.
In fact, it wasn't just poetry. Even forms like rhapsodies and odes were far more accomplished in this world than in his previous life. If a transmigrator wanted to make a career of copying literature here, the most practical approach was probably to copy novels, essays, and philosophy... Yes, history offered a lesson: one highly successful predecessor had done exactly that.
As everyone knew, although Lord Wenchao was a literary genius renowned throughout the land, he hadn't actually written many poems. Most of his work consisted of fiction, followed by things like philosophy.
As for poetry... Lord Wenchao had reportedly once said, "Two lines take three years to craft; writing poems is such hard work. Better to write novels—several thousand words a day." Such crude words certainly suited his style. So much so that many poets liked to joke about their own "hard work."
These days, writing a brilliant poem about the moon had become harder than ever.
The years rolled on, and their predecessors had written almost everything worth writing about the subject. It was truly difficult for later generations to stand out!
In recent years, Great Xia had produced few poems that made anyone's eyes light up. Even rising stars of the literary world tended to write prose instead.
Fortunately, every Mid-Autumn Festival still brought a few fine essays