1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

A wicked smile played on Michael's unshaven face.

He relit his pipe and continued:

"Michelle, Charles, people are always forgetful. Pure tragedy only brings cheap tears, but what happens after the tears have dried?"

"The next day the sun rose as usual, the factory owners continued to eat and drink well, and the workers continued to rot in the machines."

"To make people remember, to make this fire burn bright enough, in my opinion, the best fuel is anger."

"Anger? Isn't 'Thirst' itself enough to make people angry?"

Dickens frowned, clearly not quite following his friend's train of thought, who had been working in the newspaper industry for over a decade.

"No, no, no, that anger was too restrained; it's far from enough."

"We need a target, a specific, hateful target."

Michael grinned mischievously and gently shook his finger.

"I want to publish a 'letter from a reader' next to 'Sleepyhead' magazine."

"I will write this letter myself. I have already thought of the contents. I will write it in the voice of a 'respected factory owner,' denouncing the current workers for being lazy, greedy, and ungrateful, and claiming that making twelve-year-old children work is 'a blessing from God' to prevent them from 'wandering the streets and going astray.'"

"As for the title, let's call it 'On the Necessity and Moral Superiority of Child Labor'."

The living room fell silent instantly, as if everyone was shocked by Michael's shameless idea.

What an unconventional way of thinking...

Michelle looked at Michael, and the corner of her mouth twitched involuntarily.

艹

Michael is a marketing genius.

This "double-edged sword" tactic has been overused on the internet in later generations. But in Victorian London, it was a game-changer.

Imagine a reader who has just finished reading the story of Natasha burning herself to death so she could take a nap, and is still deeply saddened. Suddenly, they see a fat, gruff factory owner next to them shouting, "She burned herself because she was lazy!" and "Work is a blessing!"

That chemical reaction was absolutely nuclear-level.

"You're a devil, Michael."

Dickens was stunned and it took him a long time to utter this sentence.

But the smile on his lips betrayed him; he also thought the idea was brilliant.

"After all, I've been in the newspaper industry for so many years, Charles."

"So, Michelle, would you mind if I found a 'reader' for your novel?"

Michael shrugged nonchalantly and turned to look at Michelle.

"Extremely happy to."

Michel spread his hands, revealing a bright smile, and decided to add fuel to the fire.

"However, it would be best to sign that letter with a seemingly respectable pseudonym. For example, 'A Patriot'."

God the hell are these patriots?

"Hahaha! Patriots! Absolutely amazing!"

Michael burst into a fit of laughter and slapped Michelle's shoulder hard.

"I knew we were kindred spirits!"

Michael, could you please be a little gentler?! You're not Russian, are you?

Michelle rubbed her shoulder, mentally ranting.

Dickens, however, stood there dumbfounded. Were his two friends even human? Why were their minds like those of demons?

Over the next half hour, the three quickly finalized the details of the operation.

Dickens was responsible for simultaneously publishing William's poems in Bentley Monthly, along with a commentary on "focusing on the working class," providing indirect support.

The London Express, on the other hand, was responsible for the main battleground, igniting public opinion.

Before leaving, Michael readily pulled out his checkbook.

"As agreed, five pounds per thousand words. 'Sleepy' is about four thousand words, so here's a check for twenty pounds. Take it, Michel, it's what you deserve."

"Michael, you're an angel!"

Michelle took the thin piece of paper.

Twenty pounds.

In this era, a skilled worker's salary is equivalent to four months' wages, while an ordinary female worker's income is equivalent to a year's income.

And he did it in just two nights.

This is the value of knowledge, or rather, the value of having the power to speak.

Thanks.

Michelle didn't mince words and carefully tucked the check into her pocket.

Michael waved, put on his coat and hat, and strode out of Dickens' house like a general who had just won a battle.

……

three days later.

The morning fog in London was still thick, and the sound of ship horns echoed across the Thames.

The newsboy's clear cries pierced through the fog and echoed through the narrow streets and alleys.

"The London Express! The latest issue of the London Express! A new book by Mr. Michel, author of 'The Last Leaf'!"

"Shocking! Factory owner angrily rebukes lazy child laborers! Who really killed the Match Girl?"

Michael clearly understands the essence of clickbait headlines; the hawking phrases used by the newsboys are all carefully crafted to pique the reader's curiosity as quickly as possible.

In a cheap pub on Lightning Street, a number of workers who had just finished their shifts gathered, along with some coolies who were preparing to try their luck at the docks.

Old Jack wiped the dirt off his face with his rough hands, took out two pennies, and bought a cheap beer.

This pub has someone come and read the latest, most interesting, and exciting stories from the London newspapers every day.

This was one of his few pastimes; he didn't know many words, but he enjoyed listening to others read stories.

"Hey Tom, read this to everyone, what's in today's paper? Is there really a two-headed monster fish in the Thames? And who is the Duchess's secret lover?"

The young man called Tom used to be a clerk. He lost his job after offending his boss and now spends his time in taverns. He picked up today's newspaper and, in the dim light, glanced at the front page.

"There's no two-headed monster fish today...and no Duchess's lover either..." Tom frowned.

"Huh? That's all?"

A collective sigh of disappointment filled the tavern.

"However, the author of 'The Last Leaf' has written a new work called 'Sleepy.'"

"There was also a reader's letter next to it, titled 'On the Necessity of Child Labor'."

Tom paused here.

"Read that story! I want to hear a story!" someone shouted.

Seeing that everyone wanted to hear a story, Tom cleared his throat and began to read aloud the short story called "Sleepyhead".

At first, the tavern was noisy. Some people were chewing on hard bread, some were complaining about the foreman's deductions, and others were snoring loudly.

But as Tom read aloud, the noise gradually faded away.

"Natasha was desperate to sleep, desperately so. Her eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, but the moment she stopped, the foreman's whip would lash her back..."

That deep-seated exhaustion, that almost pathological thirst for sleep, is all too familiar to these workers who are also struggling on the brink of collapse.

It felt so familiar, almost like looking in a mirror.

This is their life, and this is their destiny.

Tom's voice choked with emotion when he read about Natasha's hallucination of a warm bed, her laughing as she threw a match into a barrel of fuel and gained "eternal sleep" in the flames.

The entire cheap tavern was deathly silent.

No one spoke, no one ate. These burly men, their eyes red-rimmed, gripped their wine glasses tightly.

In a corner of the tavern, a young female worker had already covered her mouth and was weeping silently. Perhaps she also had a sister like Natasha, or perhaps she herself was the surviving Natasha.

"Fuck this world!" Old Jack slammed the cup to the ground, shards of glass flying everywhere.

The roar was like a signal, breaking the oppressive silence.

"This isn't a story; it's about a human life!"

"I'm reminded of little Charlie next door, who died from exhaustion under the spinning machine last month, just like that..."

Just as the crowd in the tavern was getting heated, Tom wiped his eyes, gritted his teeth, and said, "There's another letter here. It's from a gentleman called 'Patriot'."

He began reading the "letter to the reader" that Michael had carefully crafted.

"These children of the lower classes are born lazy. If they aren't taught manners in the factory, they'll only become thieves and prostitutes... They should be grateful we provide them with jobs, not complain about the little bit of hardship... After all, having a job is already a blessing..."

The whole place exploded!

If "Sleepyhead" is a powder keg, then this letter is a torch thrown into it.

"Bullshit! What utter bullshit!"

"Is this something a human being would say?!"

"I work fourteen hours a day, I'm so exhausted I'm vomiting blood, and I'm supposed to thank him for that?"

A fit of rage instantly ignited the small, inexpensive pub. And the same scene was playing out in countless corners of London.

In the corners of factories, at the alleyways of slums, and even on the tables of some middle-class people.

Michael's strategy worked.

The stark contrast amplifies the novel's impact tenfold!