Shen Hao felt embarrassed for these people just watching from the sidelines. Although he wasn't skilled at poetry and relied entirely on the help of his ancestors, he could still tell what was good or bad. After all, nine years of compulsory education and all those poetry contests hadn't gone to waste. So to Shen Hao, Xie Youlin's two pieces were, at best, just passable—how were people praising them as masterpieces?
What happened to the integrity of scholars?
Don't they have any shame left?
Honestly, it's not hard to tell whether a poem is good—the surprise and admiration of the scholars around are pretty obvious signs.
Beside the red lacquer rack stood a white cloth, and nearby sat a famous calligrapher, smiling with a cup in hand. Zhang and Gan explained to Shen Hao that if a truly great poem appeared, it would be written on that cloth and passed down in acclaim.
