1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Michelle walked straight down.

The landlady slumped down in front of William's room on the second floor, her face deathly pale, her burly body trembling uncontrollably.

Several bolder male residents stood aside, pointing and gesturing towards the inside.

The stench that permeated the apartment was emanating from William's room.

"What happened?" Michelle asked, pulling aside a familiar neighbor.

"Oh dear, William is dead inside the house."

The neighbor lowered his voice, his face showing lingering fear.

"The landlady said he hadn't paid this week's rent, and when no one answered the door, she used her spare key...who knew..."

William?

Michelle's heart sank.

He remembered the young man who always had a shy smile. Just last week, even though he was almost late, he had kindly led the way for Robert and then rushed to the factory.

Because Michelle was the only university student in the building, William respected him greatly. He even asked him for help with reading and writing on several occasions.

William also enjoyed writing, but it was mostly poetry depicting pastoral scenery, unrelated to his factory job. Michelle had read his writing; though the language was simple, it was very insightful.

Michelle squeezed through the doorway and glanced inside.

The room was a mess, but you could see a person lying on the bed, covered with a dirty blanket.

The lingering stench silently testifies to this tragedy.

"What bad luck! He died right across from my house, how are we supposed to live now?"

A drunken voice rang out from the crowd. It was Emily's father, Mr. Green, who lived across the street; he still seemed to be intoxicated.

He had barely finished speaking when several cold gazes were cast upon him.

Mr. Green shrank his neck, muttered a few words, then seemed to realize something and fell silent.

He himself was a factory worker, and although his job wasn't particularly dangerous, seeing William's fate still gave him a chilling feeling of shared sorrow.

"Excuse me, let me take a look."

A firm and powerful voice came from behind.

The crowd parted automatically to make way for Mr. Hansen, who lived on the first floor. This gentleman was said to have been a doctor, but for some reason, he now lived here. He had gray hair but was in good spirits and was the most respected resident in the building.

Without the slightest hesitation, Mr. Hansen walked straight into the stench-filled room.

A few minutes later, he came out with a solemn expression and sighed to the still-shaken landlady and the others.

"No need to call the police."

He spoke slowly: "William died of his own accord."

"Did he die of his own accord?" the landlady asked, trembling.

"Hmm." Mr. Hansen nodded.

"It was due to overwork, coupled with a relapse of an old illness. The smell you're catching isn't just the stench of a rotting corpse, but also what he's coughing up from his lungs."

He paused, glanced around at the neighbors, and slowly began to speak.

Does anyone know which factory Mr. William works at?

"It seems to be the Lightning Street textile factory. I heard William say that he worked there for ten years."

One resident recalled from the crowd.

"That matches up," Mr. Hansen nodded and continued.

"Do you know? In cotton mills, cotton lint flies everywhere, like a never-ending snowfall. Most factories don't have any protective measures. Workers work more than ten hours a day inside, inhaling more cotton dust than they eat bread."

"Over time, the cotton fibers will clog his lungs, which we call 'cotton dust lung.' People who get this disease will eventually suffocate to death like him."

"At first it was just a cough, then I felt chest tightness and shortness of breath, and eventually my entire lungs rotted away, and all I coughed up was bloody purulent sputum..."

"He didn't die of illness; he was slowly killed by the factory."

Mr. Hansen’s voice was calm, but every word struck the hearts of everyone present.

Michelle also felt a strong sense of suffocation and powerlessness.

He had previously learned from books about the darkness of the Victorian era, how those flesh-and-blood factories devoured workers' lives, and that the average lifespan of workers in that era was only 20 years.

But that knowledge is nothing more than a cold line of text on a book.

At this moment, a living person, a young man who had talked with him and shared his dreams with him, died silently downstairs.

The previously abstract and distant darkness was, at this moment, materialized into the lifeless body on the bed and the lingering stench in the air.

The greatness of the empire was forged by these workers, but its glory had nothing to do with them.

The era did not share any benefits with them, but even a speck of dust from that era felt as heavy as a mountain when it hit them.

Soon after, a body collector came and took the body away.

William had no relatives in London.

We should be thankful that there is no organ trade in this era, otherwise William would probably have been turned into fragments of a hero.

Michelle knew that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, William's body would be taken away for centralized disposal and incinerated like garbage. Part of it would drift on the Thames, while the rest would turn into smoke and dissipate into the thick fog of London.

It flowed in the coughs of the textile factory workers, and also in the elegant clothes of the gentlemen.

Subsequently, the landlady collected some valuables from William's room to cover rent and cleaning costs.

In the end, only a notebook with notes was left. The landlady glanced at it and then threw it on the ground.

A worker's manuscript is worthless.

Once the crowd of onlookers had gradually dispersed, Michelle stepped forward and gently picked up the notebook...

-----------------

Michelle returned to her attic.

He closed the door, shutting out the noise and stench from downstairs.

But some things cannot be kept out of the door. In his mind, William's face, which looked older than his youth, and Mr. Hansen's calm yet piercing words always appeared.

"He was killed bit by bit by the factory."

How many people like William are there in this era?

Michelle opened William's notebook; it was newly bought and didn't contain much.

But one can vaguely discern William's love for life from those recorded words.

At the end of his notes, William hastily wrote down a few lines of poetry, his handwriting trembling slightly, perhaps due to his persistent cough.

"When I wake up in the morning, my lungs hurt like they're about to explode."

"This is an extra bonus from the big machine."

"It's not the steel's fault, it's that I'm old and fragile."

"I'm afraid to look at my own life; it's hard and dark."

"Snowflakes filled the factory; we were like frost covering the ground."

"A few snowflakes are embedded in my body."

"It became one of the seven stars of the Big Dipper."

The language of the poem is simple and unadorned, yet it is full of infectious power, as if William were writing it with his life.

The cotton wool that filled the factory became the snowflakes in William's writing. The deadly "cotton dust" in his lungs transformed into the stars in the night sky.

Even the humblest bones flow with the mighty currents of rivers.

How could such verses, such vitality, such transcendence of suffering, not move one to tears?

Michelle recalled a passage she had once read.

Literature is not a light to illuminate reality, but a light to illuminate the darkness of the soul. It does not shy away from suffering, but confronts the essence of suffering, guiding people to find meaning in life amidst despair.

A strange yet intense emotion surged within him, leaving him unable to let go for a long time.

A strong creative impulse was brewing in his heart, and he had to express it.

Suddenly, he remembered the great Russian short story master and one of his masterpieces.

An idea gradually took shape in Michelle's mind.

He wanted to use his pen to write something for William.

Michelle took a deep breath, and the frustration and confusion in her chest vanished, replaced by an unusually high spirit.

"After all, coming into this world, one must change something, right?"