《抱朴子外篇》Vol. 30

Some argue that ancient authors possessed extraordinary talent and profound thinking, hence their writings appear subtle and obscure; whereas modern people have shallow knowledge and limited abilities, making their writings straightforward and superficial. Comparing this modern simplicity to ancient profundity is like matching a field ditch to the Yangtze River, or an anthill to towering mountains. They claim that unless a river originates from the Kunlun Mountains, it cannot become a mighty current flowing eastward; unless a work comes from a genius, it cannot carry profound meaning that endures for millennia.

Ge Hong (the Baopuzi) responds thus: With those who have only seen the narrow view through a bamboo tube, one cannot discuss the vastness beyond the nine heavens; with those accustomed to constraints, one cannot expect extraordinary insights. The ancient sages were neither gods nor spirits—their physical forms have long vanished, but their thoughts and spirit are preserved in their texts, their emotions reflected in their words, and their essence can still be grasped. The obscurity of ancient texts is not necessarily intentional; it may stem from linguistic shifts over time, dialectal differences, or the ravages of war that left bamboo slips decayed, fragmented, and incomplete, making them appear abstruse.

For instance, the Book of Documents, though a compilation of state affairs, lacks the richness and elegance of modern edicts and memorials; the Book of Songs, though poetic, cannot match the grandeur of the Fu on the Shanglin Park, Fu on the Imperial Hunt, Fu on the Two Capitals, or Fu on the Three Capitals. If so, why do the works of ancient masters still surpass modern writings? Traditionalists merely parrot others—they have ears but no eyes—how could they ever admit this? They venerate ancient texts as divine while belittling contemporary works, a long-standing bias that favors the past over the present. It is like a newly forged sword increasing in value with a false inscription, or a tattered medical prescription becoming a treasure when falsely attributed to an ancient sage.

Thus, though ancient texts are plain, mediocre scholars insist they are unfathomably profound; though modern writings shine like gold and jade, commoners dismiss them as mere rubble. Yet even among the vast corpus of ancient classics, not all are flawless—what matters is treating them as an inexhaustible treasury for scholars, allowing writers to extract their essence. Like the forests of Dong’ou or the groves of Changzhou, though catalpas and camphorwoods abound...

This passage employs a series of analogies to discuss the evolution of literature and art across different eras. The author argues against simplistic judgments of superiority based solely on antiquity, just as one cannot claim modern magnificent buildings are inferior to ancient simple dwellings, nor assert that the abundant fish harvests of Yunmeng Marsh (a famous ancient lake) surpass exquisitely prepared delicacies.

The same principle applies to poetry. Both ancient and contemporary verse hold their own value—just as among equally virtuous scholars, some excel more in literary arts; or among equally beautiful women, some possess greater artistic talents. For instance, when describing palaces, Wang Yanshou’s Han-dynasty "Rhapsody on the Hall of Numinous Brilliance in Lu" surpasses Xi Si’s depiction of the royal chamber in the Classic of Poetry (Shijing). Similarly, Sima Xiangru’s "Rhapsody on the Imperial Park" outshines the hunting poems "Shu Yu Tian" and "Lu Ling" from the Classic of Poetry.

Even the "supplemental poems" (buwang shi) composed by modern poets like Xiahou Zhan and Pan Yue (styled Anren)—written in imitation of the Classic of Poetry style—are acknowledged by erudite scholars as rarely matched among the Three Hundred Poems of the classic anthology. Times change, and the natural progression from simplicity to complexity is inevitable. Brocade surpasses straw raincoats in both splendor and durability, just as ornate carriages represent advancement over crude oxcarts.

Writing, like language itself, cannot be reduced to mere accessibility—why then would we revere profound and challenging classics? As boats and carriages replaced walking, and writing supplanted knot-tying records, later generations have consistently surpassed their predecessors. If progress is evident in all other fields, why should literature alone be deemed inferior in modern times?