Chapter Forty-Two: The Theory of Hard Pen Threat

That was indeed a 'brush,' but it was, in truth, a feather quill, its tip sharpened to a fine point. Had it not been stained with ink, no one would have guessed that this was the brush of a disciple of the School of Mo.
“Yes, you may call it a goose quill, or simply a hard-tipped pen,” Mo Dun said, displaying the quill in his hand.
Everyone’s eyes widened in disbelief—a humble goose feather, yet capable of producing such graceful script.
“A hard-tipped pen!”
Liu Yinian mused thoughtfully. If that were the case, it would indeed explain how such small characters had been written.
Under the gaze of the crowd, Mo Dun opened the stopper of his ink bottle, dipped the quill lightly, and wrote gently upon the rice paper:
“Goose, goose, goose,
With slender neck singing to the sky.
White feathers float upon green waters,
Red webbed feet stir the clear waves.”
This poem, Ode to the Goose, was Mo Dun’s favorite verse from his former life, written by the early Tang poet Luo Bingwang. At this moment, Luo Bingwang had not yet been born, and Mo Dun shamelessly claimed it as his own!
The poem was short, and Mo Dun finished it in one stroke.
“It truly writes!”
“The script matches the one used for lessons exactly—this must really be Mo Dun’s handwriting.”
“So fast!” Qin Huaiyu’s eyes sparkled, more interested in the speed of writing, for it meant more time to play.
“The characters are tiny, yet clear! It saves paper, and goose feathers are cheaper.” Some students who had gambled all their money on Mo Dun’s loss were already bankrupt; brush pens and rice paper were terribly expensive, so saving money was paramount.
“No, this isn’t a brush—it simply won’t do!” Xiong Maolin shouted loudly.
“How so? Didn’t the master say yesterday that, regardless of method or pen, what matters is neat writing on paper? Isn’t this script neat?” Mo Dun retorted.
“Uh…” Xiong Maocai was instantly silenced, and Liu Yinian wore an awkward expression; indeed, the essence of calligraphy lay in fine writing, not the instrument used.

The other students of the National Academy felt frustrated; it seemed there was no way to make trouble for Mo Dun on this point.
“The script is fine, but the content leaves much to be desired! What’s all this about singing to the sky and stirring clear waves… What nonsense!” Wang Ling rolled his eyes and complained disdainfully.
No sooner had he spoken than he noticed strange looks from those around him. Xiong Maocai nudged him, whispering, “You should read it from left to right!”
“Goose, goose, goose, with slender neck singing to the sky…” Wang Ling struggled to read, his face changing dramatically. Mo Dun had written yet another fine poem.
“What a poem!” A voice called in praise from the doorway, and in walked Kong Yingda, the Director of the National Academy, full of admiration.
“Director!” Liu Yinian quickly bowed in greeting.
“Director!”
The academy students all bowed, and Mo Dun followed suit.
Kong Yingda entered, picked up Mo Dun’s goose quill, marveling at it, then examined Mo Dun’s script and exclaimed, “Who would have thought such a simple feather could produce such elegant writing!”
“Director, I was about to report to you! I’ve never seen this script before—I suspect it’s a new style,” said Liu Yinian, who, well-traveled, was nonetheless amazed by the script.
Kong Yingda nodded. He, a master calligrapher, had studied many scripts, but had never seen one like this.
“Impossible!” The students were stunned. A man whose writing was notoriously ugly had, in a single night, created a new script—a miracle unfolding before their eyes.
Xiong Maocai was utterly ashamed; he had boasted of surpassing Mo Dun, but now Mo Dun was hailed as a founder of a new school of calligraphy, while he was reduced to a mere clown.
“Thin horizontals, thick verticals, hooked ends—this must be modeled after carved inscriptions!” Kong Yingda deduced.
“Director, you are wise! As a child, my family was poor and could not afford paper or pens, so I often practiced in sand, eventually achieving some skill,” Mo Dun explained, though the script he wrote was Song typeface, originating from woodblock printing.
“To use goose feathers as pen—what a brilliant idea!” Kong Yingda exclaimed.
“Crow feathers or peacock quills are even better, but goose feathers are the cheapest,” Mo Dun replied.

Goose feathers were discarded everywhere during slaughter, their cost exceedingly low—nothing compared to the hundreds of coins for wolf or rabbit hair brushes.
Kong Yingda picked up the goose quill and wrote a few characters. Though awkward at first, as a man who had practiced calligraphy for decades, he soon managed to produce decent script.
“Fast and small! Saves paper!” Kong Yingda looked at his writing with satisfaction, raised the slightly yellowed tip of the quill, and compared it to Liu Yinian’s wolf hair brush. Using the brush to write the same characters—even with utmost control—they were much larger and slower than those written with the quill.
“If this tool were adopted widely, it would be a blessing for scholars everywhere,” Kong Yingda declared.
“Director, please don’t! If this spreads, it will cause great chaos!” Liu Yinian protested in alarm.
“What chaos could a goose quill possibly cause? Master Liu, do not exaggerate!” Kong Yingda rebuked him.
“How dare I speak rashly? Director, please look at Mo Dun’s poem!” Liu Yinian pointed at the freshly written Ode to the Goose.
“Goose, goose, goose, with slender neck singing to the sky…” Kong Yingda’s expression grew darker as he read. Mo Dun’s writing was horizontal, read from left to right, while brush calligraphy was vertical, read from right to left—a completely opposing method.
If goose quills were popularized, two different ways of writing would appear in the world, certainly causing upheaval.
“Mo Dun, why do you write this way?” Kong Yingda asked, grave.
“Director, please observe: when writing with a goose quill, the left hand holds the paper lightly, the right hand writes, and writing from left to right avoids smearing wet ink on one’s sleeve. Please look at your own sleeve!” Mo Dun waved his clean sleeve.
Kong Yingda raised his own, seeing spots of ink, and felt somewhat reassured. At least Mo Dun’s explanation showed it was a feature of the quill, not a challenge to brush calligraphy.
“Director, imagine how chaotic it would be if society had two mixed writing systems,” Liu Yinian cried in anguish.
“Master speaks truth!” Mo Dun nodded, agreeing with Liu Yinian’s view, which surprised Kong Yingda.
“But have you ever wondered, why do you write from top to bottom and right to left?” Mo Dun suddenly posed a question that caught everyone off guard.