This year, they weren’t buying the big horses. By the end of the year, he needed to help his father-in-law relocate the grave. Soon, Xie Yan would return to the prefectural city for studies, and he would need to go out to inspect estates, check the land, and select tenants—this would incur some expenses.
There was also the matter of moving house. He hadn’t asked Xie Yan about it yet, preferring to wait until the end of the year. It wasn’t something they could do this year anyway; asking now would be too hasty. During their year-end break, after the two of them talked, they still needed to ask Wu Pingzhi if he was willing to study in the prefectural city, so as not to be unfair.
Outside of midday, Lu Yang handled various chores but also spent time sitting with Xie Yan. Sometimes they read, sometimes wrote down thoughts, but mostly they did needlework. Since he would soon leave the county, opportunities to fulfill filial duties were few. A pair of cotton boots was just a small token of his care.
Xie Yan loved talking with him. When it came to imperial exams, Lu Yang mostly didn’t understand, so he trusted whatever Xie Yan said. The more Xie Yan spoke, the more Lu Yang gradually learned, able to have back-and-forth discussions.
For scholarly matters, Lu Yang was helpless. Classical texts were too obscure; his knowledge was shallow. Many sentences he couldn’t even read properly, let alone understand.
Xie Yan told him what Mr. Cui had said: “All civil officials are scholars; scholars like good writing.” It sounded logical, but also somewhat trivial.
Lu Yang, using his own understanding, interpreted it as everyone having preferences—each person their own likes. For instance, he loved wealth; Xie Yan loved reading.
From this perspective, another phenomenon in the exam system made sense. Why did many examinees inquire about the chief examiner’s preferences before the test? Simply to curry favor.
The two discussed a bit but didn’t come to a full understanding.
That day, Gold Boss from the study hall delivered three articles written by successful candidates—mid-tier examination submissions.
Xie Yan studied them, then visited a few of his mentors. He knew the procedures for the provincial exams and came to discuss the writing styles used in the three stages.
The third stage, the “policy question,” was now his main focus. He had little prior exposure to this type of composition; most he had seen were “exegesis-style” essays.
As he had mentioned before, in imperial exams, the same prompt could produce thousands of papers. One paper might answer one way, another differently. Examining them consecutively, the examiners would become weary and bored, let alone selecting the top ones.
His thought was: either be fresh or be novel. Focusing solely on these two, however, risked deviation—either the essay didn’t match the topic or was too eccentric, with overly sharp wording.
Xie Yan made notes: “if it hits the topic, it’s fresh; if it penetrates the topic, it’s novel.”
One must derive from the topic or its essence, not seek outside sources.
Reading the same books, tackling the same prompts with the same formats and habitual thinking—how could he write in a way to capture the examiner’s attention?
From a young age, Xie Yan loved to converse with words, to consider alternative possibilities, to wonder why things couldn’t be done differently. Over the years, he could independently judge whether writing was fresh or novel.
But this alone was not enough.
Several of his mentors were successful candidates themselves, with many peers to discuss with. As instructors, they had long experience with imperial exams and understood each stage more deeply than Xie Yan.
It’s commonly said that scholars must read well. Their teaching primarily focused on reading and essay writing.
Xie Yan, asking questions beyond reading and writing, received extended discussions on related matters from his mentors.
He already knew that examiners would tire and grow bored of papers—but would examinees themselves fatigue? Could they maintain clarity across seven consecutive essays?
Managing energy became crucial. The best essay should go first, the next best third, then second, alternating the rest. This clever arrangement allowed small advantages to accumulate for future success.
What else needed study? Should the essay be more polished, more utilitarian?
No mentor could give a definitive answer. Polishing the essay might make it lose its sharpness but gain safety. Writing for utility could focus on the core and appeal to the examiner, but might blend into mediocrity.
As for other forms—judgments, memorials, official reports—Xie Yan’s direction was correct; mastering these was sufficient. No need to spend excessive time there.
Provincial exams tested “policy questions,” essentially problem-solving approaches. His mentors advised: read widely, think deeply, but don’t obsess.
“Like reading books—if the book is too thin, you won’t understand it.”
Xie Yan had been reading heavily and had grasped a little.
He categorized his reading; some were “incomprehensible.” Returning to them later, he would suddenly understand.
The saying “understand one, understand all” applied: once you read widely, switching genres in writing became easier.
For him, the hardest part was turning vague ideas clear and compiling scarce “indexes” densely.
It was like holding an unfinished book, with only the middle pages. Yet he could recognize it as a good book.
But the book had no beginning, no end. He held a treasure he didn’t know where to use, feeling both precious and frustrating.
After visiting his mentors, he felt unsettled, hardly touching his dinner.
Back in his room, he sat at his desk but couldn’t focus. Thoughts crowded him; writing them down helped, but new questions arose and blocked him, trapping him.
Xie Yan widened his eyes in disbelief.
“I…can’t focus on reading?”
Lu Yang brought him a bowl of pear soup and glanced at the draft paper beside him. It wasn’t notes or coherent thoughts—just messy ideas: lost, confused, overwhelmed.
Standing nearby, Lu Yang didn’t rush him. Xie Yan didn’t touch the pear soup; instead, he turned and pressed his face into Lu Yang’s chest.
“Jingzhi, my head hurts so much.”
With a headache, there was no reading.
Lu Yang gently massaged his head. Xie Yan closed his eyes, comfortable.
After a while, Lu Yang pinched his ears and encouraged him to drink the pear soup while warm.
“I made it specially for you.”
Autumn was dry. Xie Yan had been anxious lately; the pear soup relieved the season’s heat.
Xie Yan asked, “Have you drunk yours?”
Lu Yang would wait until later, after digesting a bit.
“Mother has a bowl too. You drink yours first.”
The soup had cooled slightly. Xie Yan drank it all in one go.
Lu Yang didn’t rush to clear the bowl. He brought a chair and sat close to him.
It was chilly at night; Xie Yan’s hands were ice-cold.
Lu Yang held them to warm them, saying, “Don’t worry while eating. Look at yourself—you’ll soon get a stomachache too.”
Xie Yan noted this and honestly admitted, “I won’t do that again.”
Lu Yang chatted more: “What’s bothering you? Tell me.”
Xie Yan spoke truthfully, repeating familiar topics he had mentioned several times.
Lu Yang suggested a new approach: “Like when you read—if you don’t understand, set it aside. This problem, if you can’t figure it out, set it aside. It’s not something that must be solved immediately. Why obsess?”
Xie Yan said, “Because I feel this problem is important. I seem to have overlooked something and can’t grasp it.”
Having heard him before, Lu Yang roughly understood—he was uncertain about writing techniques.
If unsure, the best way is to act. Sitting idly and thinking does no one any good.
Xie Yan froze.
Lu Yang continued: “You write very fast. I’ve seen it. A typical essay of 300–500 words—you can write tens of thousands in a day. Counting time, you can write thousands in a day. Even conservatively, five essays a day. Isn’t that enough to experiment?”
