True art?
The smile slowly faded from Jiang Jie's face, replaced by boundless coldness.
How dare he say storytelling wasn't art? That only theater counted as art in this world? Buddy, weren't you being a little too full of yourself? Even Shakespeare wouldn't dare say that!
"Gan Luo became chancellor at twelve, and Varian became king at seventeen! What's wrong with being fifteen? Can't a fifteen-year-old write a novel like that? Let me make this clear: I didn't write Tides of Darkness, but this world has no shortage of geniuses! Some people write novels far better than Tides of Darkness before they even turn fifteen!"
Jiang Jie pushed open the door, his face cold.
He walked up to Princess Calia and bowed respectfully, then turned toward the bard in his forties, dressed in knightly attire, and sneered without courtesy. "I admit that theater is a remarkable art, and the opera you love is an especially remarkable form of theater. But you've dismissed and criticized storytelling before you've even heard it. Where does that confidence come from? What gives you such assurance? Your shallowness? Or your arrogance?"
His words met the challenge head-on. Jiang Jie's tone was cold and merciless, and the room instantly fell silent.
No one had expected Jiang Jie to be so sensitive, without the slightest attempt at tact or compromise. He had turned openly hostile at Don Quixote's criticism, and Don Quixote's face instantly turned darker than pig's liver.
"Do you know the four great elements of theater? Do you know its three essentials? Do you know what kinds of theater there are? Do you know any famous plays? You know nothing!" Don Quixote still maintained his knightly bearing, merely sneering at Jiang Jie. "Give me your novel, and I'll turn it into a classic! A classic that will endure for centuries!"
A head-on clash!
An absolute head-on clash!
The young maid tugged at Jiang Jie's clothes and quietly tried to persuade him, telling him that Don Quixote was the greatest bard in Lordaeron today. Although he could not compare to Master Trouvere, he had written such celebrated works as Gavinrad the Dire and The Legend of Thoradin. He absolutely must not clash with him.
Princess Calia stood to one side with a gentle smile, watching without speaking. He was very curious about Jiang Jie, because he always felt that this human boy harbored many secrets. Despite his youth, he always gave the impression of being an adult, which was very strange and interesting.
"A classic? A classic that will endure for centuries? Since when did the word 'classic' become so cheap? Can just anyone and any work be called a 'classic'?" Jiang Jie said coolly. "You think Tides of Darkness is excellent, but to me, it doesn't qualify as a classic at all! Only works that retain their renown through the ages and never fade deserve to be called classics! As for the things you and Trouvere have written, who will remember them a hundred years from now? They're nothing special!"
Classics?
In Jiang Jie's heart, the Four Books and Five Classics were classics, the Bible and the Diamond Sutra were classics, The Butterfly Lovers was a classic, and Hamlet was a classic.
Only works that could remain immortal for ten thousand years and endure for a thousand generations deserved to be called classics!
Azeroth was a world plagued by disasters. Its culture was nowhere near as rich, varied, or accomplished as Earth's. Humans devoted most of their energy to survival. Only the Night Elves and High Elves, who had existed for ten thousand years, had the qualifications and ability to create enduring masterpieces. Humanity's foundations were too thin, its population too small, and its cultural heritage too shallow.
Classics!
Jiang Jie's interpretation of classics made the young maid's heart race, her face flush, and her eyes shine. She thought young Nicholas was amazing, truly amazing! That fearless bearing fascinated her!
Princess Calia nodded gently, then gently shook her head.
Those words were nothing extraordinary. Anyone with a little knowledge and education could say them, but who could actually create a classic? It was too difficult.
Besides, life was short. Humans in Azeroth had an average lifespan of only around fifty years, beset by disasters and facing threats everywhere from ogres, Orcs, Undead, and other races.
Surviving was what mattered most. Art?
That was something to pursue once people lived in peace and prosperity.
"Only when the granaries are full do people learn propriety; only when they have enough food and clothing do they understand honor and shame. The economic base determines the superstructure. Lordaeron has existed for over two thousand years and enjoyed peace and prosperity for over two thousand years. It has indeed produced plenty of good works, but not a single one deserves to be called a classic. Now I'll show you what a classic really is!"
Jiang Jie walked to the table, picked up a pen, and began writing furiously.
Hamlet!
It was one of Shakespeare's four great tragedies, and one of the most significant works in the history of Western theater. A thousand readers saw a thousand Hamlets. Jiang Jie had read Hamlet too, and he had his own understanding of it.
That was not important.
He was merely a transcriber, someone passing it on, so after taking up the pen, he wrote "by Shakespeare" after the title, just as he had done when writing Tides of Darkness.
With that anger in his heart, Jiang Jie's handwriting was sloppy and very fast, even faster than it had been last night.
Don Quixote held his head high like a proud swan, unimpressed by Jiang Jie's furious writing. "Hmph, what work hasn't been painstakingly refined? I spent two whole years writing The Legend of Thoradin! Trouvere spent three years writing Turalyon: Glory of the Holy Light! How could anyone create a classic without studying hundreds of books in a library and traveling far and wide to conduct interviews? You're still too young!"
Jiang Jie ignored him.
Don Quixote was right. Classics did indeed require painstaking refinement. Dream of the Red Chamber had undergone five rounds of additions and deletions and ten years of revision, and Hamlet had not been written in a day either. But he was not creating anything. He was merely transcribing, nothing more.
There was no need to think.
"Ah!" The young maid, standing behind Jiang Jie and reading, suddenly cried out.
"What is it?" Princess Calia asked in confusion.
"Your Highness, Your Highness! What Nicholas has written is so good, truly so good! It's a hundred times better than Tides of Darkness! I've never read anything this good. It's truly wonderful!" The young maid was so excited that her words tumbled over one another.
"Better than Tides of Darkness? How is that possible?" Princess Calia did not believe it at all.
She had read Tides of Darkness and knew it was an excellent work. She believed a work like that could not possibly have been written overnight. Nicholas must have finished it long ago and was merely retrieving it from memory and transcribing it over these past two days.
But it was still understandable for a fifteen-year-old boy to write Tides of Darkness. After all, it was not a classic, not enough to be handed down through the ages. But if he could write something even better than Tides of Darkness, then "genius" would no longer be enough to describe him.
That would make him a monster!