The conversation at the table had turned from matters of bureaucracy to matters of literature. Naturally, they could not avoid talking about last year's astounding poetic performance by young Master Fan. Fan Xian pretended to be holding his wine cup up to his lips, but if this young fellow dared say anything bad to him, he was preparing to spill it, understanding the air of frustration.
To his surprise, Shi Chanli stood up, his face the color of peach blossom, his words sickeningly sappy. Tears were flowing from his eyes. "I have been reading the Banxianzhai Poetry Anthology for many months. How can I read any other poet again? How can I ever have the courage to put pen to paper again? Though some of the poems are odd, with young Fan before me, how can I control myself? It is a tragedy. A tragedy!"
Fan Xian beamed, thinking of those loveable people who criticized leaders and comrades, not paying attention to their own rest.
