I want to ask him if, when he left Chang'an back then, he was truly as carefree as described in the poem, or if he also harbored some reluctance to leave behind his ideals.

I want to stay with Du Fu under his thatched hut in Chengdu, watching the autumn wind sweep away the thatch, making his white hair all messy.

Despite the hunger and cold, he sat on a broken bamboo chair, held a pen, and wrote down his wish: "If only I could have thousands of mansions, to shelter all the poor scholars of the world and make them smile."

I want to hear the light in his eyes when he reminisces about the prosperity of Chang'an, saying, "I remember the days of the Kaiyuan era, when even a small town had ten thousand households."

The tremor in his voice was palpable as he recounted the world's ills, such as "the rich feasting on meat and wine while the poor freeze to death on the streets."

See how the landscape under his pen sheds blood and tears amidst war – in "Spring View," there is the line, "The country is broken, but the mountains and rivers remain; in the spring city, grass and trees grow deep."

The lines from "The Officer at Shihao" – "The night is long and the voices have ceased, but I can hear sobbing" – reveal the scholar's burning patriotism hidden within those somber verses.

He harbored compassion for the suffering of the people, and even when he was in dire straits, he never forgot the plight of the common people.

I want to invite Li Qingzhao to go boating among the lotus blossoms in Jinan, to watch the gulls and egrets startled by the oars, skimming across the water and leaving ripples in their wake.

She was wearing a light pink dress, sitting at the bow of the boat, holding a lotus flower in her hand.

She softly recited, "I often remember the pavilion by the stream at dusk, so intoxicated that I forgot the way home," and the words revealed the girl's innocent charm.

I want to accompany her to Jiangnan again, to see her in her later years living in a dilapidated little building, watching the drizzle outside the window.

He wrote, "Searching and searching, so desolate and lonely, so miserable and wretched," his pen conveying the grief and indignation of a broken homeland.

I want to ask her, from the leisurely "Do you know, do you know, it should be green leaves and red flowers" to the tragic "To live as a hero, to die as a ghost."

How did she, amidst chaos, use words to preserve her inner integrity, allowing her delicate yet resilient spirit to remain moving even after a thousand years?

“You’re right,” she said, turning to look at Xin Zimo, her eyes sparkling like a galaxy, even her eyelashes seemed to be covered in starlight.

"What you fought for me was not just time, but the ability for Jinyun and me to stand together on the banks of the long river of history, to see how Chinese civilization, from an ancient spark, has grown into a prairie fire."

Look at those heroic figures bathed in blood—it's like the tattoo of "Serve the country with utmost loyalty" on Yue Fei's back.

It was when he led the Yue Family Army to a great victory over the Jin army at Zhuxian Town that his cry of "Return my rivers and mountains!" terrified the enemy.

It was Wen Tianxiang on the Lingdingyang Sea, facing the coercion and enticement of the Yuan army.

He penned the final lines, "Since ancient times, who has ever escaped death? Let my loyal heart shine in history," and the sincerity in those ink marks is more precious than gold.

Look at that brilliant wisdom—it's the unwavering confidence in Zhang Heng's eyes as he stands before the seismograph, watching the copper bead fall into the toad's mouth and precisely point to the epicenter.

It was Bi Sheng who, in his workshop, repeatedly polished clay movable type, making it easier for classic texts to be passed down and ensuring that the flame of civilization could be passed on from generation to generation.

When Li Shizhen traveled thousands of miles, carrying a medicine basket to pick herbs in the deep mountains, and wrote the "Compendium of Materia Medica", every word he wrote contained his reverence for life.

Look at that unyielding spirit—it's like Tao Yuanming refusing to bow down to a village boy for five pecks of rice.

After retiring to the countryside, he picked chrysanthemums under the eastern fence and wrote the leisurely lines, "Picking chrysanthemums under the eastern fence, I leisurely see the Southern Mountain."

Even after Su Shi was demoted to Huangzhou following the Wutai Poetry Case, he was still able to compose the heroic lines "The great river flows eastward, its waves sweeping away the past" on Chibi Cliff.

He wrote the magnanimous line, "Let life unfold as it may, amidst the misty rain," in a rain-soaked alley.

It was Lin Zexu who watched as opium was poured into the burning pools at Humen Beach and set ablaze.

The vow, "If it benefits the nation, I will risk my life; how can I avoid it because of personal fortune or misfortune?" still resonates powerfully today.

How did these elements intertwine to create the magnificent and turbulent history spanning five thousand years?

How can we ensure that Chinese civilization continues to shine with enduring brilliance throughout the long river of time?

It is the blood of heroes, the sweat of wise men, the pens of scholars, and the everyday life of ordinary people that together weave this magnificent tapestry.

“If we finish all this, we’ll still have some free time,” she said, casting her gaze toward the vast emptiness beyond.

Like a child full of curiosity about the world, her eyes sparkled with excitement, and even her voice carried a hint of anticipation.

"Then go and see what dynastic rise and fall is depicted in cuneiform script on the clay tablets of Mesopotamia—the prosperity of the ancient Babylonian kingdom."

Watch the vines entwine in the Hanging Gardens, and listen to the inscriptions on the Code of Hammurabi stele, which tell of the pursuit of justice three thousand years ago.

Venture into the shadows of the pyramids to uncover the many unsolved mysteries hidden within the pharaohs' tombs—how those stones, weighing tens of tons, were stacked in an era without machinery.

Did the gods and pharaohs depicted in those murals truly protect this land?