After writing “Memorize the Three Hundred Tang Poems” on the first page of the Before Transmigration Preparation Manual, Lin Wanwan immediately drew up a poetry-memorization plan for herself.
There were twenty-nine days left until the blood moon.
Depending on the edition, the Three Hundred Tang Poems contained slightly different numbers of poems. But even if there really were only three hundred, she would still have to memorize more than ten a day on average.
Ten poems didn’t sound like that many.
It was only after she actually started memorizing them that she realized it was nothing like that.
A five-character quatrain had only twenty characters.
Ten poems came to no more than two hundred characters.
But if they contained lone sails, lone cities, lone boats, lone clouds, cold mountains, cold rivers, the Yangtze, and the Yellow River all at once, she would quickly lose track of who was lonely where.
Lin Wanwan decided she couldn’t simply cram them in the order they appeared in the book.
That method was far too inefficient.
Proper transmigration preparation should categorize them according to the situations in which they might be used.
She opened a new spreadsheet and typed at the very top: “Ancient Poetry Application Database.”
Column One: Author.
Column Two: Title.
Column Three: Theme.
Column Four: Appropriate Situations.
Column Five: Usage Risks.
Column Six: The Original Author’s Birth Year.
Column Seven: The Original Author’s Death Year.
Column Eight: Whether It Could Be Used Safely After Transmigration.
Once the fields were set up, Lin Wanwan started with several of the most famous poets.
Li Bai.
Du Fu.
Bai Juyi.
Wang Wei.
Su Shi.
Her hand paused when she entered Su Shi’s name.
Su Shi wasn’t from the Tang dynasty.
Since the first item in the manual was to memorize the Three Hundred Tang Poems, she probably shouldn’t mix Song ci poetry into it for now.
Lin Wanwan had no choice but to add another tab called “Song Ci Backup.”
After thinking it over, she created a third tab: “Yuan Sanqu Backup.”
Then she created a fourth: “Famous Lines Throughout History.”
A spreadsheet originally meant only for memorizing Tang poetry had expanded into a database of Chinese classical literature in less than five minutes.
Lin Wanwan wasn’t surprised.
Transmigration preparation had never been something that could be completed with just one book.
She started with Li Bai.
For homesickness: “Quiet Night Thought.”
For drinking: “Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon.”
For waterfalls: “Viewing the Waterfall at Mount Lu.”
For farewells: “Seeing Meng Haoran Off from Yellow Crane Tower to Guangling.”
For when someone looked down on her: “To Li Yong.”
For showing bold passion: “Bring in the Wine.”
Lin Wanwan filled out the “Appropriate Situations” column with painstaking care.
For example, “Quiet Night Thought” couldn’t be used casually at a banquet.
Unless the theme of the banquet happened to be the moon, or the emperor suddenly asked whether she missed her homeland.
Otherwise, if she suddenly lowered her head and thought of home while standing before a table laden with delicacies, people might assume she was dissatisfied with the banquet.
“Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon” was suitable for admiring the moon and drinking.
But she couldn’t recite “I raise my cup and invite the bright moon; with my shadow, we make three” when the emperor, the Empress, and an entire table of guests were present.
There would clearly be dozens of people there, yet she would insist that there were only herself, the moon, and her shadow. That would be rather dismissive of everyone else.
“Viewing the Waterfall at Mount Lu” was even more restricted by location.
There had better actually be a waterfall nearby.
If she stood beside a well and started saying, “The cascading stream plunges three thousand feet,” she would very likely be taken for someone deliberately exaggerating the amount of water.
The more Lin Wanwan organized everything, the more she felt that memorizing poetry wasn’t as simple as it was in novels.
Whenever the female lead in a novel merely lifted her head and glanced at the scenery, a timeless masterpiece perfectly suited to the situation would automatically appear in her mind.
Lin Wanwan, on the other hand, had to build an index ahead of time.
Which poem to use for the moon.
Which poem to use for peach blossoms.
Which poem to use for drinking.
Which poem to use for heartbreak.
Which poem to use after being banished to the Cold Palace.
Otherwise, no matter how many poems she memorized, if she couldn’t find the right one at the critical moment, it would be no different from not memorizing any at all.
Lin Wanwan opened the Three Hundred Tang Poems and decided to start with the simplest one, “Quiet Night Thought.”
She already knew this one.
At least, she had always thought she did.
She closed the book and cleared her throat.
“Before my bed, the bright moon shines.”
The first line was fine.
“I wonder if it is frost upon the ground.”
The second line went smoothly too.
“I lower my head and think of home.”
Lin Wanwan stopped.
It seemed like a line was missing.
She frowned and tried to remember.
The next second, her memory finally clicked back into place.
“I raise my head and invite the bright moon; with my shadow, we make three.”
She recited the poem in full and felt quite pleased with herself.
One poem, five lines.
Although it was a little stranger in length than she remembered, Li Bai had always loved the moon. Adding one more line was perfectly reasonable.
A little longer than she remembered.
But Li Bai had always loved the moon. Adding one more line was perfectly reasonable.
Lin Wanwan opened the book to check.
Before my bed, the bright moon shines.
I wonder if it is frost upon the ground.
I raise my head and gaze at the bright moon.
I lower my head and think of home.
Four lines.
There was no invitation to the moon.
And no three people.
She stared at the words in the book for several seconds, then immediately flipped to “Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon.”
I raise my cup and invite the bright moon.
With my shadow, we make three.
Lin Wanwan fell silent.
She hadn’t merely added an extra line.
She had taken two poems apart, rearranged them, and assembled an entirely new work.
First, she saw the moon before her bed.
Then she lowered her head and missed home.
As she thought about it, she started drinking.
Finally, she invited the moon and her shadow to join her.
The emotional progression was even fairly coherent.
Lin Wanwan picked up her pen and added a note beside her poetry-memorization plan: “Do not memorize famous lines alone. Confirm the entire poem.”
After thinking about it, she added: “In particular, do not connect works by the same poet together.”
Otherwise, if someone asked her to compose a poem after transmigration, she might open her mouth and produce a Li Bai medley. A true scholar could realize on the spot that something was wrong.
The most troublesome part was that she herself might not know what was wrong.
Lin Wanwan recited “Quiet Night Thought” again.
Before my bed, the bright moon shines.
I wonder if it is frost upon the ground.
I raise my head and gaze at the bright moon.
I lower my head and think of home.
She took out her phone and recorded herself, making sure she hadn’t brought out a wine cup again before marking “Preliminarily Complete” in the spreadsheet.
Next came “Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon.”
This one wasn’t so simple.
Originally, she only knew, “I raise my cup and invite the bright moon; with my shadow, we make three.”
It wasn’t until she opened the full poem that she discovered it began with “Amid the flowers, one jug of wine,” and continued for quite a while afterward.
When the female lead in a novel used this poem at a banquet, she usually recited only the four most famous lines.
Everyone would immediately erupt in astonishment.
No one would ask what came next.
But reality might not be so accommodating.
What if an ancient poet became engrossed and asked her to continue? She couldn’t just smile and say that she had finished memorizing the good part.
Lin Wanwan had no choice but to divide poetry proficiency into three levels.
Level One: famous lines.
Level Two: the complete poem.
Level Three: being able to explain its meaning and the background behind its composition.
Any work she genuinely planned to use in public had to reach at least Level Two.
Knowing only two lines made it far too easy to give herself away.
She also adjusted her daily poetry-memorization schedule.
Three new poems in the morning.
Review three poems in the afternoon.
Random prompts at night.
She didn’t just have to memorize the content. She also had to simulate the situations in which she might use it.
For example:
When seeing the moon, choose an appropriate line within three seconds.
When someone offers a toast, decide within five seconds whether to use Li Bai, Wang Wei, or simply not compose a poem at all.
When faced with a farewell scene, do not send a friend up Yellow Crane Tower and then suddenly switch to “Urge your lord to drain one more cup of wine.”
Both poems could be used for sending someone off.
But the locations and moods were completely different.
Lin Wanwan even planned to make poetry flashcards.
The situation would be written on the front.
The recommended work would be written on the back.
“The emperor admires the moon.”
“Quiet Night Thought” was too risky and could easily make it seem as though she wanted to go home.
Choose another moon poem.
“The Prince goes to war.”
Do not use works describing the cruelty of war or the deaths of soldiers.
Choose bold and auspicious lines instead.
“Flower-viewing banquet in the inner palace.”
Avoid fallen flowers, withered blossoms, and the fleeting beauty of youth.
Above all, do not sigh about beautiful women growing old in front of older consorts.
“Seated at the same table as a romantic rival.”
Avoid any work mentioning two people in love with each other, lest it be taken as deliberate provocation.
As Lin Wanwan wrote card after card, she gradually realized that composing poetry wasn’t merely a literary matter.
It was also a political matter.
The same line could produce entirely different results depending on whom she said it to.
Telling the emperor, “Heaven has given me talent, so it must have a use for me,” could make her seem confident.
Telling the Crown Prince might make him suspect she was implying that she was the one who was truly useful.
Saying, “How could I bow and bend my brows to serve the powerful?” at an ordinary banquet could make her seem principled.
Saying it in front of the emperor, however, might directly prove that she was unwilling to bow to the powerful.
And the emperor himself was the most powerful person in the entire world.
Lin Wanwan immediately marked “To Li Yong” and “Dreaming of Mount Tianmu and Leaving It in a Farewell Poem” in red.
Usage risk: High.
Appropriate situations: When her identity was secure, she had an escape route, and she wasn’t afraid of offending anyone.
If she had already entered the palace, it was best not to use them.
She checked “Bring in the Wine” again.
“Heaven has given me talent, so it must have a use for me” was excellent.
“Once a thousand pieces of gold are spent, more will come back” was imposing too.
The problem was that the rest also included spending all one’s money and trading precious possessions for wine.
If she were short of money after transmigration and recited it in public, people might mistakenly think she genuinely advocated squandering the family fortune.
Lin Wanwan had no choice but to add a note beside it: “Famous lines may be excerpted, but do not completely imitate the lifestyle.”
Li Bai could spend a thousand pieces of gold.
She couldn’t.
She still needed that money to buy food, open a restaurant, make soap, and bribe the gatekeepers when necessary.
After studying Li Bai, Lin Wanwan opened Du Fu’s works and discovered another problem almost immediately.
Du Fu’s poetry was certainly excellent.
But many of his works were too heavy.
A fallen nation.
War and chaos.
The people driven from their homes.
The authorities conscripting soldiers.
If she transmigrated into a time of peace and prosperity and recited, “The nation is shattered, yet its mountains and rivers remain,” in front of the emperor, he probably wouldn’t praise her writing first.
He would ask which nation had fallen.
She added another column to the poetry spreadsheet: “Could This Be Considered Inauspicious?”
A huge number of poems lit up with yellow warnings at once.
Bai Juyi wasn’t entirely safe either.
Some of his poems could express the suffering of ordinary people.
But if she recited them in front of nobles, they might think she was satirizing the government.
Wang Wei was relatively safe.
Mountains and rivers.
The countryside.
Zen serenity.
Most of the time, he wouldn’t offend anyone.
Lin Wanwan immediately marked Wang Wei’s name with: “The Safe Poet.”
Li Bai was labeled: “Highly Effective, High Risk.”
Du Fu: “Suitable for Times of Turmoil; Use Cautiously in Times of Peace.”
Bai Juyi: “Likely to Involve Social Issues.”
Looking at the completed author categories, Lin Wanwan suddenly felt that she wasn’t studying classical poetry.
She was creating an ancient banquet speech-review system.
But it was necessary.
When a female lead in a novel plagiarized poetry, the greatest risk was usually nothing more than making others jealous.
Only now did Lin Wanwan realize that the real risks also included using the wrong poem in the wrong situation, secretly mocking the emperor, predicting the fall of a nation, and accidentally reciting a place name or event that had not happened yet.
At that thought, her fingers suddenly stopped over the keyboard.
Had not happened yet.
Lin Wanwan slowly raised her head.
She had been considering whether a poem suited a particular situation, but she had overlooked an even more important question.
The era.
If she transmigrated to a time after the Tang dynasty, Li Bai’s poems would already have spread throughout the realm.
If she recited them in public, she wouldn’t become a talented poetess.
She would merely become someone openly plagiarizing Li Bai—and pretending the poems were her own after plagiarizing them.
If she transmigrated to the era when Li Bai was still alive, the situation would be even more dangerous.
What if the two of them were at the same banquet and she recited “Bring in the Wine” first, with Li Bai himself sitting right beside her? That would be extremely difficult to explain.
She couldn’t exactly tell him that he would write the poem in the future and that she was just borrowing it ahead of time.
At best, she would be dismissed as a liar.
At worst, she would be taken for a monster.
But what if she transmigrated to an even earlier era?
Lin Wanwan looked at the “Author’s Birth Year” column in the spreadsheet.
Li Bai was born in 701 CE.
If she transmigrated to a time before that, “Quiet Night Thought” wouldn’t exist yet.
No one would have written “Bring in the Wine” either.
No one in the entire world could accuse her of plagiarizing Li Bai.
Because Li Bai himself hadn’t even been born yet.
Lin Wanwan stared at the year as an extremely audacious possibility gradually took shape in her mind.
She didn’t have to avoid Li Bai.
She could write all of Li Bai’s poems before Li Bai did.
Then, hundreds of years later, when the real Li Bai was born—
Who would count as plagiarizing whom?
Lin Wanwan’s expression slowly changed.
“Wait. What if I transmigrate to before Li Bai was born?”
Staring at the birth year on the screen, Lin Wanwan suddenly saw an entirely new path open before her.
As long as she transmigrated to before 701 CE, Li Bai hadn’t been born yet.
No one had written “Quiet Night Thought.”
No one had written “Bring in the Wine.”
Even “The cascading stream plunges three thousand feet” had not yet been used by anyone to describe a waterfall.
So, as long as she wrote all those poems before Li Bai was born—
Li Bai would no longer be the first person to write them.
Lin Wanwan slowly straightened up.
She might even claim the title of “Poet Immortal” ahead of time.
Several decades later, the real Li Bai would be born.
Grow up.
Begin composing poetry.
Then he would suddenly write a line: “Before my bed, the bright moon shines.”
The people beside him would be horrified.
“Didn’t Lin Wanwan write that several decades ago?”
Lin Wanwan imagined the scene.
Li Bai would stand among a hall full of literati with a wine jug in hand, publicly questioned about why he had plagiarized the work of a senior female poet.
And that senior female poet would be her.
That way, she wouldn’t be plagiarizing Li Bai.
Li Bai would be plagiarizing her.
Although those poems had originally been written by Li Bai.
As long as she recited them first, history would never know that.
History only knew who had published first.
Lin Wanwan immediately added a note beside “Era-Related Risks”: “If you transmigrate to before the author was born, you can claim the copyright first.”
After writing it down, she felt the wording wasn’t quite accurate.
There probably wasn’t such a thing as copyright in ancient times.
So she changed it to: “If you transmigrate to before the author was born, you can memorize it first.”
Part Six | End