1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

"This is an invisible murder!"

When Dickens finished speaking, the air in the entire living room seemed to freeze instantly.

Michelle's hand, holding the tea and snacks, froze in mid-air. Michael forgot to smoke the pipe he had just lit, letting the smoke rise and blur his face.

"Your writing is very restrained, Michelle. From beginning to end, there is almost no direct accusation or commentary. You are simply recording how a little girl named Natasha longs for sleep and how she gradually descends into collapse."

"But it is precisely this almost cruel calm that makes the despair and pain almost overflow from between the lines, making it hard to breathe."

Dickens's voice lowered, and his deep blue eyes churned with a complex mix of emotions—pity, anger, and a hint of reminiscence...

This work reminded Dickens of his childhood days working at the Warren shoe polish factory. The harsh conditions, the oppressive, sunless environment, and the feeling of being exploited and having all his time consumed were experiences he could never forget.

He rarely talks about this past event; it is the deepest scar in his heart.

But today, after reading "Sleepyhead," those long-forgotten memories, those feelings of coldness and hunger, once again swept over Dickens's mind.

Therefore, he, who is usually very active, was rather quiet today.

However, a question also arose in Dickens's mind.

Logically speaking, Michelle never went into the factory, so how could she write about the oppression in the factory so vividly?

He looked at Michelle, a hint of curiosity in his eyes: "Michelle, what made you write such a story?"

Michael also turned his head and looked at Michelle with curiosity.

Yes, what exactly has this guy been through? First, he wrote a heartwarming story like "The Last Leaf," and now he's pulled out a deadly blade like "Sleepy."

Michel put down his half-eaten dessert and remained silent for a moment, as if organizing his thoughts.

"Because a large part of this story is true."

He slowly began to speak, and began to tell William's story.

From that always enthusiastic young man to his deadly job in the textile factory.

From Mr. Hansen's explanation of "cotton dust lung" to that stinking room.

Finally, he talked about the notebook that the landlady had casually thrown away, and the poem he wrote at the end of his life.

"Snowflakes were falling all over the factory, and we were like frost covering the ground."

"A few snowflakes became embedded in my body, forming the Big Dipper."

When Michelle softly recited those two lines of poetry, Dickens's body, which was leaning back on the sofa, trembled slightly.

Michael took a deep drag on his pipe and exhaled heavily.

"This young man named William was a born poet. His talent, his life, was silently swallowed up by the cotton wool in the factory."

Dickens murmured these lines of poetry, and suddenly, a great sorrow gripped the heart of this literary giant.

In William, he seemed to see another version of himself from another timeline.

If he had been working at the black shoe polish factory, could it be that he himself had disappeared without a trace?

After a long while, as if he had made a decision, Dickens's gaze became intense, and his face radiated a special kind of light.

"His voice shouldn't just disappear into the London fog! Michel, there's still space in the January poetry section of Bentley Monthly; I'm going to put William's poems in it!"

"good!"

Michelle agreed without any hesitation.

William could never have imagined that his poems would be published in a literary journal.

"Michelle, this work is absolutely stunning. But have you thought about what will happen after it's published?"

Just then, Michael, who had been silent for a while, spoke up, his expression becoming serious.

"It's completely different from 'The Last Leaf.' 'The Last Leaf' brings hope and comfort, while 'Sleepy' is a knife, a knife that stabs directly into the hearts of those factory owners!"

"The sharp edge of 'The Last Leaf' is well hidden, so it won't make too many people feel bad."

"But 'Sleepy' is different. It's about match factories, toxic white phosphorus, and 18-hour workdays. You're practically pointing your finger at those factory owners and calling them murderers."

"Those gentlemen who live a respectable life by exploiting the workers' blood and sweat will not be kind to you. They will do everything in their power to ruin your reputation in London!"

Michael's words were not an exaggeration.

The literati of this era were either court writers who entertained the upper class, or critical experts who could criticize current affairs with a single click of the keyboard.

Choosing to become the latter often means paying a huge price.

Dickens also looked at Michel with concern. He himself had suffered countless attacks and criticisms, which almost shattered his resolve.

As a college student who hasn't graduated yet, can Michelle withstand this pressure?

However, Michelle's reaction surprised them.

He picked up the snack he hadn't finished and continued eating it slowly and deliberately, as if Michael were talking about something that had nothing to do with him.

"If they feel they've been criticized, it just means I wrote it correctly."

"The more aggressively they hurl their insults, the more desperate they are."

Michel finished his pastry and then took a sip of his black tea. He looked up, his gaze clear and resolute.

"Michael, Charles, if I don't even dare to voice this opinion, what's the point of what I write?"

"Something has to change, doesn't it?"

"After all, I came into this world to see the sun."

He said this as if he were speaking to someone else, but also as if he were speaking to himself.

Michael and Dickens were stunned upon hearing this.

This statement, imbued with a strong yearning for light and a steadfast pursuit of ideals, reveals a powerful vitality.

It seemed as if a blazing flame of life was about to ignite, illuminating this dark and cloud-shrouded London.

Yes, how could Michel, who can say such things, be defeated by other people's gossip and discussions?

Looking at the young man before them, at his clear, pure eyes, they were suddenly overwhelmed with an indescribable sense of awe.

Something had to change. Isn't that exactly why they picked up their pens in the first place?

But after being immersed in the world of fame and fortune for so long, sometimes even they themselves almost forget their original aspirations.

Michael looked at Michelle, the seriousness and worry on his face gradually fading, replaced by a long-lost passion that had been ignited.

"Well said!"

"Damn it! We have to make it! We absolutely have to make it!"

Michael's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"I'm not only going to publish this article, I'm going to put it in the most prominent position in the London Express!"

"I want all of London to read this novel!"

Seeing Michael so excited, like a young boy, Dickens smiled with satisfaction.

Michelle smiled too.

He knew he had made the right bet.

Who doesn't want to change the world?

Whether it's Michael or Dickens, their very being flows with that damned, yet incredibly passionate blood that belongs to writers.

Ten years of drinking ice cannot cool the burning passion in one's blood.

"but......."

Suddenly, as if he had thought of something, Michael revealed a sly smile.

"Michelle, Charles, perhaps we can try a different approach to make this work more impactful."

"What method?"

Michelle and Dickens looked at him at the same time and asked in unison.