1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Dickens's study was located on the second floor, on the shady side, overlooking the entire garden.

The tall bookshelves reached the ceiling and were crammed with all kinds of books.

Sunlight streamed through the glass window, casting bright spots of light on the carpet, while dust particles danced in the beams of light.

This is where Dickens created Pickwick and Oliver; every inch of this place is imbued with the brilliance of the story.

And now, Michelle sits at the desk that gave birth to countless classic characters.

The air was filled with the mixed smells of old books, ink, and cigars, which gave Michelle a strange sense of peace.

He sat down, spread out the manuscript paper, and took the pen.

The cool pen barrel made him feel grounded.

He closed his eyes, and the story of the turner Grigori flowed through his mind like frames from a movie.

On a snowy night, there was a dilapidated sled, a dying old partner, and a skinny old horse.

This is not a story of condemning social injustice, but an allegory about regret and remorse in human nature.

It is safe enough, but also profound enough.

Michelle took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and the pen tip scratched across the paper.

He didn't hesitate or pause at all; it seemed as if he wasn't creating, but rather retelling a story.

Scenes flowed from his pen!

The setting of "Mourning" is quite a radical change; the story is moved from the countryside of Tsarist Russia to a remote village in northern England. The blacksmith Grigory is transformed into a blacksmith named George, a man who was once highly skilled but has fallen into poverty due to alcoholism.

On a bitterly cold winter night, he drove his horse-drawn carriage through a blizzard, carrying his seriously ill and feverish wife, Martha, along muddy and rugged country roads to the town hospital more than twenty miles away.

Michelle's writing speed increased.

He was completely immersed in the story's emotions, feeling George's inner turmoil, self-blame, and belated warmth.

He wrote that George rambled on to his comatose wife, recalling the beatings and neglect he had inflicted on her when they were young.

He wrote that Martha's "stern and rigid" eyes at the end of her life pierced George's heart, which had been numb for decades, like an awl.

He wrote that George swore in the snowstorm that he would give up drinking, pick up the hammer again, and buy her a brand new, beautiful soft hat, as long as Martha survived.

But all of this has come far too late!

When he woke up, he was already in the hospital and was even going to have his leg amputated!

Outside the study, the atmosphere in the living room was somewhat subtle.

Michael paced back and forth anxiously, glancing every now and then at the closed door to the study.

Time ticked by, the flames in the fireplace crackled, and his expression grew increasingly impatient.

"Charles, do you really think he can finish writing tonight?" He finally couldn't help but stop and ask Dickens.

"This isn't just writing a letter; this is a novel destined for the front page!"

Dickens took a sip of whiskey, his demeanor much more composed than Michael's.

"Michael, we should be more patient with geniuses."

He leaned back on the sofa and slowly exhaled a smoke ring.

He had confidence in Michel, because Dickens himself was a player who was in good form.

As one of the most outstanding writers of our time, he understood Michel's state of mind better than anyone else.

It was a state of near-divine communion, completely enveloped by inspiration. I felt omnipotent.

He himself had similar experiences, but those usually happened when he was alone late at night.

And Michelle, on this bright afternoon, so easily entered the state that all writers dream of.

"What I'm more curious about is what kind of story he'll bring us."

Michael pursed his lips and started counting his steps again.

He acknowledged that Michelle was a genius, but to write a high-quality front-page article in just a few hours was beyond genius and almost a miracle.

This does not conform to the principles of creative work.

Just as he was filled with suspicion, the study door opened.

Michelle came out, looking somewhat tired, but her eyes were unusually bright.

He held a thick stack of manuscript paper in his hand, the ink on the paper not yet completely dry.

"I have successfully completed the task."

His voice was a little hoarse.

Michael and Dickens were both stunned, and the living room fell silent for a moment.

Michael rushed over and practically snatched the stack of papers from Michelle's hands.

He looked down and saw a striking title on the first page of the manuscript.

"sad".

Then, he eagerly continued reading.

Dickens also came over, his gaze falling on the manuscript.

At first, Michael looked impatient as he searched the manuscript for any possible flaws.

After all, it can't be written in such a short time, so the quality is bound to be low.

But soon, his brows relaxed, and he became engrossed in reading.

His breathing became even, the anxiety on his face disappeared, and he forgot everything around him.

Dickens's expression changed even more noticeably.

He was initially surprised, but then his eyes revealed admiration.

Although he had already heard the overall plot, he found that Michelle's writing was better than he had imagined!

The only sound in the living room was the crackling of the fireplace.

Michel didn't disturb them. He walked to the side, poured himself a cup of black tea, and sipped it slowly while waiting for them to finish watching.

When Michael finished reading the last page, he let out a long breath, a breath that seemed to carry the chill of the blizzard that had filled the manuscript.

He looked up at Michelle with the eyes of someone looking at a monster. His mouth opened and closed, but he couldn't utter a single word.

This story is so powerful.

Unlike "Sleepyhead," which directly accuses and shouts, it is more like a silent torture, a heavy snowfall imbued with sorrow.

It doesn't blame anyone, yet it evokes a deep sense of pain and reflection in every reader.

Dickens also looked up at Michel, his eyes filled with solemnity.

"Michelle, if 'Sleepy' is a sharp blade piercing the festering sores of society, then 'Mourning' is a mirror reflecting the most hidden corners of human nature."

"I have read many stories about people from the lower classes, all of which try to depict their suffering and struggles."

Dickens gave it high praise, his voice tinged with a touch of emotion.

"But I rarely see it done in such a cruel yet compassionate way, dissecting the belated remorse in the heart of an ordinary person."

"This blacksmith named George is not a bad person, at least not a villain in the traditional sense."

"He was just a numb, ordinary person whose senses had been dulled by life and alcohol."

"And the most brilliant and heartbreaking part of your story is that you woke him up. But by then, it was all too late."

Michael listened attentively, nodding occasionally.

While he couldn't analyze the story from a literary technique perspective like Dickens, as a top newspaper editor, he could keenly sense the market potential behind it.

"That's it! That's the feeling!" Michael exclaimed excitedly.

"After reading this, readers won't think about storming the Ministry of the Interior or smashing up factories."

"They will fall silent, they will reflect, they will ask themselves: Am I, like George, neglecting the people around me? Am I becoming numb too?"

"This manuscript is perfect!"

"It continues your style of criticizing reality, but the firepower is aimed at human nature itself, rather than a specific class or institution."

"Even if those bureaucrats in the Ministry of the Interior wanted to cause trouble, they wouldn't have a chance!"

"They can't accuse us of calling for love and warmth, can they?"

Michael laughed, his laughter filled with pride and excitement.

He could already foresee the uproar his novel, "Sorrow," would cause throughout London once it was published.

It was no longer a storm of anger, but an undercurrent of sorrow stirring deep within people's hearts.

"Charles, what do you think?" Michael turned to Dickens, seeking the opinion of the most popular author.

Dickens couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Michael, you asked an unnecessary question."

He stood up, walked over to Michelle, and said, word by word.

"London is too noisy now, filled with all sorts of sounds: anger, greed, fear..."

"Perhaps London really needs a moment of sorrow, a heavy snowfall, to quiet everyone down and allow them to listen to the voice of their own hearts."

"Instead of leaving only regret and remorse..."

Thank you to "Brother Adu" for the three monthly tickets, and to "Wind and Water" and "0513Miku" for the recommendation tickets.

Thank you so much! It gives me even more motivation to write!