Fantasy Writers 1860

Chapter 116. Literary Storm

"Mr. Dorian possesses admirable virtues; despite his immense talent, he remains remarkably humble. In comparison, I still have much room for improvement."

The young poet who was the first to recite his own work at the Countess Castel's literary salon that day told his parents about his experience that night.

"—I was too impetuous. I was already complacent after only producing a piece of this caliber. When the Countess called on me first that day, I was overjoyed, thinking that my work had already gained recognition in the circle, and that I would soon become a real poet. I even wanted to show off. But after seeing Dorian's work and performance, I realized that I still need to learn and practice more."

"It's alright, child, I'm so glad you're alright, I'm so glad you're alright—" The mother hugged her child tightly, the tear stains on her cheeks not yet completely wiped away.

That night, she was also awakened by the earthquake, and her first thought was of her son who had gone to a salon and had not yet returned.

The next day, when she learned that the epicenter of the accident was so close to her son's location, she was so frightened that she fainted on the spot and it took her a long time to recover.

Fortunately, she and her husband went to the police station, where they saw their child. Everything was there, except the child looked a little dirty. Later, as one of the people closest to the child that night, he was asked to stay at the police station to cooperate with the investigation, and he has now finally gone home.

I know the Dorian you mentioned. He recently wrote "The Necklace" and "The Cop and the Hymn." Were he there that day too? I've never seen him publish any poetry before.

Unlike his mother, the father was not sentimental. After confirming that his son was unharmed at the police station that day, he stopped caring about the aftermath of the gas explosion and instead became interested in Dorian.

Since his son had already established such a connection with him, perhaps he could continue this connection and expand his son's network for the future.

"Yes, so this must be his first poem. To have such an excellent first poem really shows me what true talent is—" The young poet sighed, feeling somewhat dejected.

Meeting someone your age who is far more accomplished than you would likely make anyone feel a little uncomfortable.

It's not necessarily jealousy or resentment at others' success; it might simply be a feeling of loneliness.

"Son, you should spend more time with him in the future. Take every opportunity to ask him for advice. Don't have any worries. As far as I know, writers often exchange creative ideas with their peers. Maybe that will inspire new ideas and help you improve?" The father began to patiently guide him.

"Yes, I know. I couldn't wait to ask him for advice that day! That's why I said he was incredibly humble." The young poet nodded with a smile, seemingly cherishing that brief experience.

The father nodded with satisfaction. For him now, this kind of guidance was enough. Saying too much or being too direct might not be effective in getting the child to listen.

"Speaking of which, you've only heard me say his poems are good, but exactly how are they good? Do you remember them?"

"I remember, of course I remember, I wrote it all down in my notebook, but the handwriting is a bit messy, and there might be some mistakes—" The young poet hurriedly pulled a palm-sized notebook from his pocket and began to read aloud:

"For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see."

"7

"—For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. (Because the wind has risen and is howling towards the sea, and I am leaving.)"

After a middle-aged man finished a heartfelt recitation in the club, all the gentlemen present turned their attention to him.

The people who had been whispering about politics and business fell silent instantly. Some stroked their beards and nodded slightly, some paused mid-sip of their whiskey, and others who had been leaning on the sofa straightened up after hearing the last sentence, their eyes slowly brightening.

"What a fine poem!"

"It combines magnificent imagination with profound philosophical thought; it truly has substance."

"I don't understand poetry, but it just sounds nice."

"Is this really Mr. Dorian's first poem?"

The middle-aged man put away his notebook, a smile on his face. "Of course, my son was there that day, and he told me himself. Countess Castells suddenly asked him to go up and show his face, and after thinking for a moment, he created it on the spot."

"Impossible, it must have been prepared in advance—"

"The preparations made in advance are quite impressive —"

Many people began to gather around the middle-aged man, trying to find out more information.

After all, his son was really there that day, and that can't be faked.

About a week before the countess's literary salon, he had boasted in the club about his son's great literary talent, claiming that he would become a great poet in a few years.

Although few people were interested in it at the time, it was indeed common knowledge.

Who could have imagined that something like this would happen that night!

Therefore, he must really know a lot about what happened back then.

The middle-aged man was quite pleased; he had become the center of attention in the entire club, and many people had taken this opportunity to invite him to participate in extra activities—all excellent opportunities to expand his social circle.

"Of course it's true. I have a friend whose son was there and saw Dorian walk a few steps in the hall with his head down, and then immediately compose a poem on the spot —"

"My brother told me this; he's never lied to me. He said his father's friend's son was there and saw it all. Mr. Dorian lowered his head, pondered for seven steps, and then composed the poem!"

"Rumors, all rumors! What 'seven steps to compose a poem'? It doesn't take that long. He just blurted it out—how do I know? My uncle's sister's daughter-in-law's friend's son-in-law's son was there! He told me!"

"That Mr. Dorian, not only is he incredibly talented, but he's also extremely handsome, practically like an ancient sculpture. His voice is deep and magnetic. Absolutely true, my sister's best friend's sister's mother's aunt is a friend of the Countess of Castells, and the Countess herself said so at her tea party a few days ago—"

"My God! So talented and so handsome? How can there be such a perfect man in this world? Dear sister, could you introduce him to me? I happen to have a salon next week, and I'd like to invite him over—"

And so, more and more bizarre little stories began to spread like a plague in the tea parties of noble ladies and gentlemen's clubs, while the male and female servants who served them told these bizarre little stories vividly in various pubs and cafes, as if they had really seen them with their own eyes.

As a result, the waiters and customers in various taverns and cafes also learned about these stories and continued to spread them to a wider audience.