Chapter 25: My Surname Is Wei

The lake behind the military camp was quite expansive, so there was no worry about finding a stone platform for calligraphy practice. Li Zisheng quietly skirted around the old man fishing there, and walked along the lakeshore. It wasn’t long before he discovered a patch of stones scattered chaotically by the water’s edge. He selected a larger stone, settled himself on a lower one beside it, and from his cloth bundle, carefully took out his brush, bamboo tube, and classic texts, beginning his morning practice.

The air was pristine and fresh, washed clean by days of gentle rain. Li Zisheng immersed himself in its moist fragrance, inhaling deeply several times. The burdens and worries in his heart seemed to dissipate entirely.

He practiced his calligraphy alone, his small running script now showing signs of maturity; the brush moved smoothly and confidently under his hand. As he was diligently writing with clear water on the stone slab, he suddenly sensed someone breathing nearby. Looking up, he saw the elderly fisherman, now standing before him, watching attentively.

It seemed the old man was indeed troubled, or else why abandon fishing to seek company here?

“Young man, how many years have you practiced your calligraphy in this way?” The elderly fisherman, holding his rod, stood before Li Zisheng, evidently curious about the boy practicing with water on the stone at dawn. Seeing Li Zisheng notice him, he stroked his beard and smiled in inquiry.

“Since I began my studies, it’s been nearly three years now,” Li Zisheng paused, thought briefly, and answered.

It was true. Though he had only formally acquired a teacher the previous year, he had already spent almost three years in this world of the Great Tang. Counting from his foundational studies, he had indeed been at it for three years, so he answered with measured certainty.

“And why do you practice your calligraphy like this?” the old fisherman pressed, intrigued.

Now that the old man was no longer frowning, but instead seemed genuinely interested in his writing, Li Zisheng stopped his movements to ponder the question, considering how best to reply.

“My family was poor when I was young. Practicing like this saves much ink, paper, and tools, so my parents need not work as hard. Over time, I grew fond of this method,” Li Zisheng explained candidly, without hiding anything.

“Oh,” the fisherman nodded, his brows now carrying a greater hint of approval.

After this brief exchange, Li Zisheng resumed his calligraphy, while the fisherman settled onto a nearby stone, watching with keen interest. It seemed observing Li Zisheng’s practice brought him more enjoyment than fishing.

Li Zisheng was not easily disturbed and continued his practice unruffled, as if the fisherman beside him did not exist.

When the red sun rose and the world brightened, Li Zisheng packed away his bamboo tube and worn brush, took a handwritten book from his cloth bag, and sat on the stone, preparing to read.

“Young man, I see your writing has already reached the threshold; you’re just one step away from mastering it. But if you continue this way, that final step may prove difficult,” the fisherman remarked with a trace of regret, seeing Li Zisheng put away his tools and take out his book.

A youth so gifted and diligent—he wished to lend a helping hand.

Hearing this, Li Zisheng was deeply moved. He had often copied the works of masters, but it felt lifeless, as if he were not truly writing, so he stopped direct imitation and practiced independently, only to find it even more challenging. Since coming to the Great Tang, he had lacked guidance from renowned teachers, and his progress was slow, no different from before.

Thus, he quickly set his book aside, bowed deeply to the old man, and after a few glances, his heart burned with hope.

“I humbly ask for your guidance, sir,” Li Zisheng bowed again.

The old man was fond of such polite and studious youths, especially those both gifted and courteous. So he did not hesitate to instruct him.

“You are too modest, child. I am but an old man who has lived a few more years, seen a bit more, walked a bit farther. To speak of ‘guidance’ is far too much,” the old man, whose brows were now relaxed and mood much improved, even smiled as he spoke.

Li Zisheng sat close by, book in hand, listening intently. He knew the fisherman was about to share something crucial, and leaned forward, ears attentive.

“Calligraphy requires copying, close imitation, comparative practice, rule-based practice, and memorized practice. One must enter the style, but also transcend it,” the fisherman said gently. “I see you have already moved beyond imitation, but these are only the basics. If you wish to truly master calligraphy, doing so is not enough.”

“Please, sir, enlighten me,” Li Zisheng replied, aware that the old man’s words matched those of great masters he had heard of in his former life. He realized the old man not only understood calligraphy, but grasped its essence thoroughly. This alone proved his profound ability.

Without pause, the old man went on to share his understanding of copying, imitation, comparison, rule-based practice, memorization, entering, and transcending styles.

“Calligraphy is not only about imitation and copying. Reading is just as important. To study calligraphy is to gain insight; one must glean understanding from the masterpieces. Some ancient works do not require direct imitation, but rather careful reading and contemplation—repeated reading, savoring, and grasping the underlying principles and charm.”

He stroked his beard, his words imbued with wisdom.

“To read the classics is like befriending the ancients, reaching resonance. I began reading calligraphic works at about your age. Reading starts from the stroke and dot, studying the ancient masters’ brushwork, composition, structure, momentum, and elegance. This is the essence of initial imitation.”

“And thereafter, there are further subtleties. The ancients spoke of three flavors in reading: beauty of form, beauty of spirit, and beauty of emotion. Thus, reading calligraphy is like reading a book—one must carefully comprehend and accumulate understanding, gradually absorbing and digesting. What enters the eye, merges in the heart, flows to the wrist, and fills the paper.”

The old man, as if teaching a junior, grew more enthusiastic, his instruction ever more heartfelt. Li Zisheng listened with increasing earnestness. Unaware of time, the elder and youth conversed happily.

“May I ask your name, sir? Your guidance is a favor I shall never forget,” Li Zisheng said gratefully.

“Hahaha, no need for such formality. Since you ask, my surname is Wei. I am merely a wanderer, living simply,” the old man replied with a laugh, stroking his beard.