Wu Taotsz, the Celestial Painter

In his fortress-palace at Nankin sat the Emperor Shun-yuen. It was a torrid day of the year 750, and the Emperor was fretful. Surfeit of power, he was reflecting, did not spell content. On the contrary, like lesser surfeits, it discomposed. It was a natural paradox, perhaps, that his seeming so full should make life appear so empty. He could not, for all his omnipotence, both eat his cake and have it.

The Emperor drew his imperial yellow silk surtout querulously about him, and "wah'd" snappishly. What was wrong with everything? As the third or fourth of his dynasty -- the Tang, now long matured in a peaceful despotism -- he possessed the lordship of all the good that existed. And yet the good was not good enough -- it was failing somehow to satisfy. And why? He wished, by the celestial dragon, that he could tell!