In the West, Voltaire, the great French thinker, was known for his wit and for speaking truth beneath the veil of charm. In the candlelit salons of Paris, he debated kings and courtiers, using laughter as a blade, reason as armor. His words exposed hypocrisy not by anger, but by elegance. In ancient China, another man wielded a similar weapon — not in courts of marble, but in the soft glow of a Chang'an night. Du Mu, poet, statesman, and thinker, mastered the art of saying what others feared to speak, his pen tracing both desire and disillusion with equal grace.
Tang Dynasty, around 840 CE
A pale moon hung over the alleys of Chang'an. Lanterns swayed in the mist, spilling ribbons of red and gold across the cobblestones. The city's laughter softened as the hour deepened. Du Mu, his robe slightly loosened, walked slowly toward the famed courtesan's pavilion — a place where song and conversation danced more honestly than politics ever did.
Inside, the air shimmered with perfume and quiet strings. A woman in pale silk poured wine, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Master Du," she teased, "they say you write verses sharper than officials' tongues. But do your poems speak for the world, or only for the heart?"
Du Mu smiled faintly, the candlelight catching the mischief in his eyes. "Perhaps," he said, "they speak for the heart that sees the world too clearly."
The music faded; their talk deepened. They spoke not of love, but of the empire — the corruption, the forgotten soldiers, the decay beneath the silk. She listened, her laughter slowly dimming into thought. "Then," she whispered, "you drink to sorrow as much as to beauty."
Du Mu lifted his cup, gazing into the flame. "The world hides truth beneath pleasure," he said. "But poetry unmasks it — gently, so no one can claim offense."
That night, when he left, the streets were nearly silent. A cold wind stirred his sleeves. In his mind, words formed — lines that blended longing and irony, truth and tenderness. Before dawn, they would become a poem whispered for centuries, where every sigh carried the wisdom of restraint.
When morning came, the revelry had long faded, yet the clarity remained — the sharp awareness that even in indulgence lies reflection, and in laughter, truth. In another hall, not far from this city, a man named Han Xizai would also host a grand night banquet — one filled with music, dancers, and secret melancholy. But behind his painted smile, a storm of awareness waited to be unveiled.