Chapter Forty-Three: The Debate Between Hard-Tip and Brush Calligraphy

Indeed! Why do we write this way? This question had never occurred to them before. Everyone fell into thoughtful silence.

“Who knows why? Anyway, I’ve been writing like this since I was a child!” Yuchi Baolin said bluntly.

“It’s because above are rulers and parents, below are ministers and children. The right is for those of higher rank, the left for those of lower; our writing runs from right to left, expressing the meaning that nothing surpasses the right. This is a reflection of Confucian ritual and propriety, quite unlike those miscellaneous schools that disregard elders and know nothing of rank or order,” Kong Huisuo declared proudly, casting a disdainful glance at Mo Dun.

“Well said!” The other students of the Imperial College cheered in unison.

Liu Yinian looked at Kong Huisuo with satisfaction, feeling his own prestige greatly enhanced. Kong Yingda, too, nodded slightly; this junior was indeed worth cultivating, talented and perceptive.

“Splendid words!” Mo Dun applauded with a sardonic smile. “But I’ve heard that the brush was invented by Meng Tian—who belonged to the military, not the Confucians! Are you sure he had Confucian ritual in mind when he created the brush?”

Mo Dun mercilessly stripped away the hypocritical veneer of Confucianism, leaving the students of the Imperial College visibly embarrassed.

Kong Huisuo’s face flushed red. In his eagerness to glorify his own school, he had overlooked the fact that Meng Tian, inventor of the brush, was a man of the military.

Kong Yingda and Liu Yinian also wore awkward expressions. This was not a joke they enjoyed.

“If we don’t know, do you?” retorted Kong Huisuo, his face red with frustration.

“Of course I do,” Mo Dun replied with a faint smile, taking out a bamboo slip from his desk. Anticipating criticism for using a hard pen, he had already prepared for this moment.

“A bamboo slip!”

Everyone looked on in puzzlement, except for Kong Yingda and Liu Yinian, who seemed to be pondering something.

“Everyone, look—when opening a scroll, you naturally hold the end with your right hand and unroll it with your left for convenience. So, ancient writing went from top to bottom, right to left.” Mo Dun held the bamboo slip in his right hand, opening the first strip with his left to reveal a blank surface. He picked up Liu Yinian’s expensive wolf-hair brush and wrote a few large, ungainly characters.

He demonstrated how to open and close the slip for all to see.

“So that’s how it is!” The crowd was struck with sudden realization, though many felt disappointed. What they had believed to be lofty rules of brush writing were in fact developed for the sake of writing on bamboo slips.

“The reason for writing characters from top to bottom, right to left, was simply to facilitate writing on bamboo slips. Later, as paper gradually replaced bamboo, the slips disappeared, but the writing style remained.

“As for the quill, it allows one to rest the hand on the table, writing smaller and faster; but to avoid getting ink on the clothes and smudging the writing, one has to write from left to right, top to bottom! This has nothing to do with ritual or belief—it’s just for convenience!” Mo Dun explained as he leaned over the desk, quickly writing a line to demonstrate.

“So it’s merely for convenience!”

Everyone understood at last, as if waking from a dream. They were reluctant to admit that their revered calligraphy stemmed from such mundane origins, but the evidence was irrefutable.

Kong Huisuo appeared utterly defeated, his cheeks burning from the blow Mo Dun had dealt with facts. His earlier arrogance now seemed laughable.

“Even if that’s true, it must still be forbidden—otherwise, the mix of two writing styles will cause chaos,” Liu Yinian stubbornly insisted. Alarmingly, most of the students nodded in agreement.

“Nonsense!” Mo Dun was instantly enraged. “Quills are cheap, easy to use, save paper, and can cut a poor student’s annual costs by ninety percent. They halve the time needed for assignments, freeing up more hours for study. How many students in the empire can’t afford pens, ink, paper, or inkstones? How many burn the midnight oil, fearing time will run out? And yet, for your own selfishness, you would ban them? Do you know how many impoverished students’ paths to learning you would block?”

Mo Dun’s words struck like blades, each one cutting deep, leaving many with flushed faces. Some poor students couldn’t hold back their tears, knowing all too well the sacrifices their families made for costly writing supplies.

“But we can’t abandon tradition!” Liu Yinian protested, still resisting.

“Setting aside the savings in money, ink, and time, let’s talk about effort,” Mo Dun continued. “With a quill, you can rest your palm, making it possible to write for long periods. But with a brush, your arm must be suspended, making prolonged writing exhausting. Over time, the strain is unbearable!”

He gave Xiong Maocai a hearty slap on the right shoulder, making him gasp in pain.

“Old Xiong, your shoulder’s in bad shape!” Mo Dun said with a toothy grin, utterly unconcerned.

“How did you know?” Xiong Maocai asked in surprise. The ache had plagued him for years, never finding relief.

Among those present, he was the best at calligraphy, and thus practiced the most—naturally, his case was worst, Mo Dun thought privately.

No one admitted to foolishness at the Imperial College, and Xiong Maocai soon realized the implication. Clutching his shoulder, he asked, “Are you saying my shoulder is ruined from too much calligraphy practice?”

“Exactly!” Mo Dun replied, quoting a classical phrase.

At these words, many instinctively reached for their own right shoulders. Aside from Mo Dun, probably only Qin Huaiyu and his two companions were free from the affliction.

“Thank goodness I don’t spend my days writing!” the three thought with a shudder.

Mo Dun looked around and said slowly, “Compared to the brush, the quill saves time, effort, money, and ink. This can’t be stopped by a simple prohibition—just as paper replaced bamboo slips, this is the inevitable course of history. Not for ritual, but for convenience and thrift! When Cai Lun improved papermaking, did any great Confucian abolish paper to protect bamboo slips?”

“Of course, we have no right to decide what others use; it’s all up to personal choice. As to which method will prevail, that’s a matter for the next century—debating it now is premature.”

With that, the argument ended. No one spoke again of brushes and quills. The Imperial College tacitly allowed Mo Dun to use a quill, while Mo Dun, for his part, did not flaunt it, as if the debate had never taken place.

Whenever Xiong Maocai saw Mo Dun, he wisely kept his distance; Mo Dun had proved his all-around superiority with his pioneering Song-style script.

As for the quills, after Kong Yingda took one for research, three more disappeared while Mo Dun’s back was turned.

There was no doubt that Qin Huaiyu and his friends had taken them, hoping to save themselves effort. Mo Dun smiled—at least, this was a promising beginning.