Chapter Forty-Two: Li Bai Wanted to Hit Someone After Hearing This

Yan Luo had already learned from Wang Dongwei’s introduction that the hallmark of ancient Greek poetry lay in its simplicity, accessibility, and direct expression of emotion, all while carrying a certain charm and even philosophical depth.

For example, Plato—if he had been born yet—once wrote a love poem:

“Stars”

While you gaze at the stars,
I wish to become the sky,
So that a thousand eyes may watch you.

Indeed, poetry flourished in ancient Greece, but compared to China, it paled. The barrier of language only deepened the divide. Collections like the Classic of Poetry, the Music Bureau, and the Songs of Chu contained exquisite verses such as “The reeds are lush, white dew becomes frost; the one I long for stands by the water’s edge.” The unique rhythm of Chinese, once translated into Greek, lost much of its beauty and atmosphere.

What poem should he recite?

Yan Luo pondered in silence. Suddenly, he recalled that Athens was now in its most prosperous era: material abundance, the pursuit of culture and pleasure, citizens who revered Zeus and honored Athena and Apollo, yet their favorite deity was none other than—

The god of wine!

Dionysus, one of the twelve Olympians, was famed for his wild revelry and advocacy of joy and pleasure, the god of wine and merriment beloved by all—senators, citizens, even farmers. The grandest festival in Athens was named for him: the Dionysia.

Aristotle recorded in his Poetics that tragedy originated from ceremonial performances honoring Dionysus.

Yan Luo reached a decision in his heart.

He chose a poem from the Music Bureau.

Under the attentive gaze of the Greeks, Yan Luo paced the plaza, and the verses, translated into ancient Greek, spilled from his lips:

“Have you seen it? The winding river descends from the heavens, flowing toward a sea ablaze with myriad colors…”

Yan Luo was not reciting “The Most Dazzling National Style,” though the lyrics echoed it—but rather Li Bai’s “Song of the Wine.”

The original opening line reads: “Do you not see, the Yellow River’s waters come from heaven, rushing to the sea, never to return.” Yet the Greeks knew nothing of the Yellow River; as for the sea, Yan Luo added the phrase “ablaze with myriad colors,” a vivid, painterly touch. Thus, the poem became a song.

Though altered, the effect was astonishing. This “first line that would make Li Bai want to fight,” immediately silenced the crowd!

Sophocles, master dramatist and poet, drew in a sharp breath.

A winding river, descending from the heavens? A sea painted with a thousand hues? Such a magnificent image, beyond all imagination! Greek poetry often employed descriptive modifiers—like Anacreon’s line, “The youth’s gaze, like that of a maiden”—using “maiden” to describe a boy showed some originality, but how could it compare to this?

“A sea ablaze with myriad colors…”

Among the elders, one who had crafted an ode to autumn trousers—a disciple of the great lyric poet Simonides—saw the scene unfold in his mind’s eye. He could not help but display a look of intoxicated wonder; so beautiful! Such colors not in a field of flowers, but in the sea itself—how astonishing!

He thought of Dionysus.

Legend held that the wine god, with the help of woodland nymphs, brewed wines of every radiant hue. Could the sea of myriad colors in the poem be Dionysus’s wine?

After reciting the first line, Yan Luo paused, both to consider how to render the next verse into Greek and to allow the listeners time to absorb and reflect. Scholars whispered among themselves.

“This poem begins with ‘Have you seen it?’—a question that stirs curiosity, emphasizing ‘seeing,’ then immediately conjures an image of a sea beyond imagination, dazzling and beautiful—simply breathtaking!”

“It’s as if we’re there…”

“To describe the sea with words of color… How did the Chinese conceive of this?”

“Ah!”

Suddenly, an elder exclaimed.

As everyone turned to him, he declared, visibly shaken, “You all focus on the sea, but have not considered the river: a winding river descending from the heavens. Don’t you see what river this could be? What waters come from the sky?”

“The Milky Way!” An aged man, barely able to stand and supported by two young companions, struggled to utter the word.

In Greek myth, Queen Hera was nursing Heracles when he bit too hard, causing her pain. She pushed him away, and droplets of her milk splashed across the sky, forming the Milky Way.

This old man was no ordinary citizen, but the renowned mathematician and philosopher of ancient Greece, inventor of dialectics: Zeno. He was so aged, lacking the vigor of Sophocles, barely able to speak, and could not participate in the contest today.

Yet he persisted, coming to witness.

“The Milky Way?”

Elders and scholars stared, stunned, previously focused only on the myriad colors, unaware of the wondrous imagination hidden in the previous line! The waters of the Milky Way descending from heaven, pouring into a sea ablaze with colors—were these hues painted by starlight?

Euripides, who had just recovered from his earlier fainting spell, now savored the poem’s flavor.

“Marvelous, marvelous,” he murmured in rapture.

Zhu Xiaoyong was drenched in sweat, Wang Dongwei’s mouth twitched; only the two of them recognized Yan Luo was reciting “The Most Dazzling National Style.” They could not fathom why the lyrics so moved the Greeks, almost to the point of kneeling.

Did square dancing have immense power even in ancient Greece, 2,500 years ago?

Yan Luo’s second line, translated into Greek, echoed over the plaza:

“Have you seen it? The face reflected in the mirror, morning brimming with youthful vigor, evening transformed—a mane of chestnut hair turned to strands of white snow.”

The original second stanza of “Song of the Wine” reads: “Do you not see, high halls and bright mirrors mourn white hair; in the morning, black as silk, by evening turned to snow”—which Yan Luo had reworked.

For instance, “black as silk” became “chestnut hair,” as most Greeks had such coloring.

These simple lines struck every heart.

Sophocles’s earlier “Lament for Fate” had included: “In the end, wretched old age arrives, frail and sickly, bereft of kin and friends”—directly naming the bitterness of growing old. But Yan Luo’s line compressed life into a single day: morning as a youth, evening already white-haired, stepping into old age—a pain even harder to bear.

“Why is life so brief? Why is fate so heartless? Is there any ending more bitter than growing old? The brave warrior can no longer wield his spear, the brilliant scholar’s mind dulls, inspiration fades…” Euripides sighed deeply, gazing skyward, eyes moist.

“These two lines are extraordinary… truly frightening.” A youth, no more than fifteen or sixteen, looked uneasy. “The first line encompasses space—from sky to sea; the second, time—from youth to old age… Just two lines, yet so vast…”

He spoke with resignation: “Even I could not achieve this!”

This boy was Aristophanes—not yet famous, but destined to become Greece’s “Father of Comedy.” He who would later disregard even the three tragic masters now felt he could not measure up to Yan Luo.

The septuagenarian Sophocles wiped tears from his eyes.

He looked at his arm—skin loose, mottled with age spots. In youth, he had been admired by many women; in his prime, he served as Athens’s treasurer, one of the ten generals. How had he become this—an old, decrepit man…

As a city of flourishing civilization and high art, Athens was deeply sensitive. Yan Luo’s second line moved many elders—citizens, senators, even Pericles, the chief magistrate—to sorrow.

Yan Luo’s voice pressed on, sweeping away the earlier wistfulness, now rising in passion:

“In the height of life, let us revel in joy—seize youth, indulge in pleasure and celebration! Do not let your cup stand empty with regret; each of us, born into this world by divine will, possesses unique talent. Even if every coin is squandered, fortune can be regained…”

What city devoted to pleasure could better embrace such verses?

These two lines spoke directly to every Athenian heart, shifting swiftly from the lament of life’s impermanence and fleeting youth to a new focus: spend freely while young, live joyfully!

The Dionysia, Athens’s grandest festival, was a time for drinking, indulgence, and pure happiness.

“So bold, this verse!”

Now Greece was in an era of self-confidence—believing in their power, their talents, with knowledge and taste widespread. Precisely because of this, they felt the deep resonance in Yan Luo’s poetry.

Athenians could barely control their surging emotions.

“Yes, each of us is born with talent and worth; what does it matter if we grow old? At least, while we were young, we laughed, experienced, and let ourselves go… Young people, seize your youth, enjoy to the fullest!”

Unconsciously, Yan Luo’s reimagining of “Song of the Wine” had led some Athenians astray…

“Slaughter cattle and sheep, cook delicacies to accompany the wine, I’ll drink three hundred cups in one go…”

Yan Luo’s voice continued to resound.

When at last he finished the final line, the sound faded. On the marble plaza of the Parthenon, atop the hill of countless temples, magistrates, dozens of elders, five hundred senators, thousands of citizens and foreigners—

All fell silent, lost in the poem’s atmosphere.

Five whole minutes passed…

Clap, clap, clap!

The first applause rang out, and as if waking from a dream, countless Greeks clapped furiously. The sound thundered, faces alight with excitement and admiration, eyes fixed on the young man in the sunlit center of the plaza.

“A masterpiece!”

“Such sublime verses surpass even the prayers offered to the gods!”

“Though he is a foreign envoy, I believe he is surely blessed by the Olympians!”

“Today will be remembered in history…”

“I am Soproloiskos, the sculptor—father of Socrates! I will personally carve a statue in his honor!”

Greeks clapped with all their might; some wept, moved to tears.

At that moment, within Yan Luo’s consciousness, the storehouse of the Heartless Puppet filled to the brim once more—this time, nearly all with positive emotions: excitement, joy, exultation, even admiration. As before, he chose to fuse them.

Beams of light converged, gradually coalescing into the phantom of a mask…