1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, the air in London was filled with coal smoke and fog.

The printing press of the London Express was bustling with activity.

The enormous printing press roared like a beast, emitting a strong smell of ink and coal.

Hot newspapers slid off the conveyor belt, piling up into a small mountain.

Michael, with dark circles under his eyes and bloodshot eyes, was extremely excited. He paced back and forth in the factory like a foreman, personally checking the printing quality of each batch of newspapers.

"Hurry! Hurry up! The newsboys are already waiting outside!"

"Make sure the text on the front page is absolutely clear! Not a single punctuation mark can be wrong!"

Soon, it was broad daylight, and a new day began in London.

The latest issue of the London Express has also been officially released.

"Breaking news! Breaking news! Latest article from the London Express!"

"Michelle's latest masterpiece, *Sorrow*! Telling a heartbreaking story you've never heard before!"

"Come and see! Mr. Michel, the author of 'Sleepyhead,' has a new book!"

Throughout the streets and alleys of London, countless newsboys waved newspapers and shouted at the top of their lungs.

These sounds were like pebbles thrown into a lake, quickly creating ripples.

"Is it Michelle?"

"Is that Michelle who exposed the factory's shady dealings and made even the Interior Ministry bow down?"

"Yes, sir," the newsboy replied.

A worker, covered in oil and fresh from his night shift, stopped and pulled a few pennies from his pocket. "Give me one."

Soon, more and more people were attracted to it.

Dockworkers, coachmen, clerks, and even some well-dressed gentlemen all took out their money to buy it.

Michelle's name has become the most prominent name in the London Express.

People are curious to see what new things this young man, who dared to challenge the factory owners and who was the novelist who understood them best, will write this time.

However, when they unfolded the newspaper and read the article "Mourning," the expected anger and shouts did not materialize.

......

On the banks of the Thames, a dockworker leans against a cargo container, reading a newspaper in the morning light.

He read very slowly, his thick calluses on his fingers almost wearing through the fragile paper.

In the story, the blacksmith named George drives a wagon through a snowstorm, carrying his seriously ill wife. He rambles on to his unconscious wife, regretting his past beatings and indifference, and vows that if she survives, he will give up drinking and start a new life.

The worker's lips moved silently, as if he were confessing along with George in the story.

He thought of his wife, the woman who always complained about his smell of alcohol, yet always left a light on for him late at night. How long had it been since he'd had a proper conversation with her?

When the worker's rough fingers trembled as he read the end of the story, when George woke up in the hospital to find that his wife had died and he himself might even have to have his limbs amputated.

He didn't cry, he just sat there silently for a long time, then raised his grimy hand and vigorously wiped his face.

He stood up, carefully folded the newspaper, stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried towards home.

Today, he didn't want to go to the pub.

.......

The same scene unfolded in the tavern.

The place was filled with smoke, a mixture of cheap beer and sweat.

But today, the atmosphere in the tavern is a little strange.

Several tables of workers were gathered together, with one man in the middle holding a copy of the London Express and reading it aloud in his rough voice, word by word.

As he read, the worker's voice choked with emotion, and he could no longer continue.

A burly man with a full beard took a big gulp of beer, then slammed the glass down on the table, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Damn it! That bastard George!" he muttered under his breath.

"How could he treat his wife like that?"

"Why are you cursing him?" a thin man next to him asked quietly.

"Looking at this George, I see myself. When my wife was sick, I was out partying in pubs, and I couldn't even be bothered to have a bowl of hot soup..."

As the man spoke, his voice grew softer and softer until he finally buried his face in his hands.

No one in the entire tavern laughed at him.

A sense of oppression and sadness permeated the air.

They weren't grieving for George and Martha in the story; they were grieving for their own lives, for those overlooked, ignored, and irreparable regrets.

Similar scenes are playing out in every corner of London.

In the story of "Mourning," there are no villains, no oppressors, only an ordinary man who collapses in belated regret.

But this sorrow, which stems from the depths of human nature, is more heartbreaking than any accusation.

It's like a mirror, allowing every reader to see themselves, and to see the numbness and neglect they once had.

......

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, in London's West End, in a lavishly decorated living room.

A noblewoman was also reading "Mourning" to her friends in her languid and elegant voice.

He was willing to buy her a brand new, beautiful soft hat. But all of this came far, far too late!

At this point, the lady paused, gently dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with lace, seemingly heartbroken for "George" in the story.

Nobody noticed that the handkerchief was still dry after wiping.

"Oh my God, that's heartbreaking," she then exclaimed.

"That man named George is so pitiful."

"Yes, this writer named Michel must be a kind-hearted gentleman," another lady chimed in.

"There is a kind of... well, a profound compassion in his writing."

They shed a tear of sympathy for the characters in the story, lamented the impermanence of life, and then began to discuss which new hat to wear to the afternoon tea party.

Just as Michael predicted, these upper-class individuals not only did not feel offended, but instead regarded reading "The Mourning" as a symbol of taste, to show their own "compassion."

They praised the depth of the London Express, admired Michel's talent, and pitied the plight of the man named "George." Completely unaware, however, that their own hearts, too, had been numbed by the comforts of their lives.

While all of London was immersed in the emotions evoked by "The Mourning," Michelle sat in Dickens's dining room, slowly and methodically cutting the beef on her plate.

The sun was shining unexpectedly in London today, which made me reflect on my own situation.

It reminded him of Chekhov's famous "literature of poverty".

"The weather is great, but there's almost no money."

"Springtime is beautiful, but it's so unlucky to be broke."

"No money, no money, and it won't be anytime soon, damn money."

Fortunately, unlike Chekhov, he could come to Dickens' house to chat about literature and maybe even get a free meal.

Having received two cash payments for his writing, he wasn't in dire financial straits. However, as everyone knows, England is a culinary wasteland. The food in restaurants outside wasn't even as good as Catherine's.

So, I should still freeload on meals.

"Aren't you going to see how people are reacting outside?" Dickens put down his knife and fork, looking at him with interest. "I bet London needs your 'Mourning' more than ever."

Michelle smiled and put another piece of toast with butter into her mouth.

"No rush, we need more time."

He's really not in a hurry.

Unlike the emotions evoked by "Sleepy," where anger is like a flame, easily ignited, the sorrow evoked by "Grief" is like a silent snowfall, taking time to slowly blanket the entire city.

Thank you to "Book Friend 20250706100900051" for the 100-point reward, "Shattered Moon Stillness" for the 4 monthly tickets, and "White Person Rice Trash", "Book Friend 20240917862ba", and "Moonrise over Mikasayama" for the recommendation tickets.

Thank you to every reader for your support. I can only repay you by writing this story well. I posted about 6,000 words today, and I'm writing an extra chapter now. It will be updated around midnight, so you can read it the next day.