1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Trinity College, Cambridge University.

Political economy professor Boulder Campbell is leisurely enjoying his afternoon tea.

Sunlight streamed through the Gothic window, falling on his silver-white hair, making him appear serene and elegant.

He was enjoying today's Times, which featured a commentary praising his courage and academic achievements.

"Professor, this is this morning's London Express. Michel has published a new article."

The teaching assistant respectfully placed a newspaper on his desk, his expression somewhat strange.

"Oh?"

Professor Campbell didn't even look up, but slowly stirred the black tea in his cup with a silver spoon.

"Has that poor little writer finally let out his wail? Read it to me, let me see what story he's made up this time."

He felt victory was assured and prepared to enjoy watching this Michelle's death throes.

Upon hearing Professor Campbell's words, the teaching assistant's expression became even more unnatural.

He cleared his throat and began to read: "An Investigation into the Living Conditions of the Working Class in East London—A Reply to Professor Campbell's 'Scientific Spirit'..."

Upon hearing the title, Professor Campbell paused for a moment while stirring his tea.

The investigation report? It's not quite what I expected.

He frowned, a bad feeling creeping into his heart.

As the teaching assistant's voice echoed in the quiet office, Professor Campbell's expression began to change visibly.

When he heard Michel use detailed data to reveal the shocking living conditions of workers in East London and question the theoretical basis of "arithmetic progression of subsistence resources," his brows furrowed tightly.

"Nonsense! Where did this data come from? It's fabricated! It must be fabricated!"

He interrupted the teaching assistant, somewhat irritated.

How could a novelist possibly obtain such detailed data in just two days?

This is so illogical!

"Professor Campbell, shall we continue reading?"

"continue."

The teaching assistant turned the page and continued reading.

When the sentence, "Professor Campbell, as you read in your warm study, do you hear the cries of the dockworkers?" was read aloud, Professor Campbell's breathing became noticeably heavier.

He felt his cheeks getting hot.

But he still forced himself to stay composed, picked up his teacup, and tried to take a sip of tea to cover up his loss of composure.

However, what he said next made his hand holding the teacup freeze in mid-air.

"According to my investigation, Trinity College, Cambridge, where you are located, received donations totaling over £50,000 from various celebrities last year..."

When the teaching assistant read this part, Professor Campbell's pupils contracted sharply.

How could he know all this?!

"If it's a sin for the government to use taxes to help a starving poor person, then what should we call it if we use the same taxes to support a scholar like you who doesn't produce anything but seeks theoretical justifications for the rich exploiting the poor?"

The teaching assistant's voice grew softer and softer; he barely dared to look at the professor's face.

The air in the office seemed to freeze.

Professor Campbell's face, which had initially turned red, gradually turned a liverish color.

His chest heaved violently, and his hand gripping the teacup tightened unconsciously.

Finally, when the most crucial question came out of the teaching assistant's mouth, time seemed to stand still.

"Is your salary also a form of... a more elegant form of begging?"

"Snap!"

The teacup fell to the ground.

The scalding hot tea splashed all over Professor Campbell, but he didn't react at all.

"Shameless... This is slander!"

He forced out a few words through clenched teeth, his whole body trembling.

Begging?

He, a professor of political economy at Cambridge University and the most steadfast defender of Malthusian theory, was actually compared to a beggar by a third-rate novelist?!

This is the most vicious insult to his identity, knowledge, and even his character!

He felt a surge of heat rush to his head, and the world before his eyes began to spin.

The teaching assistant was terrified and quickly stepped forward to ask, "Professor, are you alright?"

"You...you get out of here!" Professor Campbell roared, pointing at the door with all his might.

The teaching assistant dared not say anything more and hurriedly left the office.

The empty room was filled only with Professor Campbell's heavy breathing.

He held onto the table, trying to stand up, but felt a sudden dizziness.

The last paragraph in the newspaper, questioning the intellectually disabled children of noble families and the gifted poor children, struck him like a hammer blow, shattering his proud theory of "natural selection."

He always thought he was defending science and order, but in the face of this article, he looks more like a shameless accomplice defending the privileged class.

He lost.

A crushing defeat.

"puff--"

A savory, metallic liquid suddenly gushed from his throat, spraying onto the Times newspaper in front of him, which bore the story of his glorious deeds.

Immediately afterwards, everything went black before his eyes, and his body went limp and he fell backward.

In his final moments before losing consciousness, only one thought remained in his mind.

That guy named Michelle, he's a monster...

The office door opened, and the teaching assistants and colleagues who rushed over witnessed a scene they would never forget.

The highly respected Professor Campbell collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood and losing consciousness.

The entire Cambridge University was in an uproar because of this newspaper from London.

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

A few days later, in Dickens' living room, the fireplace flickered, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere.

Michelle sat on the sofa, holding a cup of black tea, listening to Michael recount everything that had happened in London over the past few days.

"You have no idea how miserable that old man Campbell is!"

Michael's face was beaming with excitement; he seemed particularly energetic tonight, and even his dark circles had faded considerably.

"He collapsed in the office that day and was found by the teaching assistant and taken to the hospital. The doctor diagnosed him with a heart problem, and he almost didn't make it."

Michelle took a sip of tea, a smile playing on his lips. He could imagine Professor Campbell's expression when he saw the article.

"This isn't over yet!" Michael continued to reveal more.

"While he was hospitalized, Cambridge University began investigating him. Your article mentioned donations and grants to Trinity College; do you know how many people that gave them an excuse?"

"Those who have always disliked him, as well as his political enemies, have finally got their chance. I heard that he did have some financial problems with certain projects in the past, and now they've all been dug up."

Michelle nodded slightly; this was not unexpected. Professor Campbell's fate was inevitable. A person standing at the forefront of controversy is easily torn apart by various forces once a flaw is exposed.

"So?" Michelle asked.

"So, Professor Campbell has been fired!" Michael slapped his thigh, his voice rising several octaves.

Cambridge University issued a statement saying he had seriously violated academic ethics and professional conduct. Now he has not only lost his professorship, but may also face legal action!

"Well done," Michelle said sincerely.

"Absolutely!" Michael grinned from ear to ear.

"You haven't seen those newspapers, have you? They're all like wilted eggplants now. Just a couple of days ago they were praising Professor Campbell to the skies, calling him a warrior defending the truth, and now? They want to erase his name from the newspapers!"

"Both The Times and The Morning Chronicle published editorials, indirectly stating that they had been misled and deeply regretted Professor Campbell's personal conduct. Their behavior was utterly despicable!"

"They dare not mention 'inciting riots' or 'voices from the gutter' anymore."

Michael snorted, clearly harboring a long-standing grudge against these newspapers.

Now they're praising you nonstop, calling you a "young talent," and some are even comparing you to Dickens, saying you're one of the "twin stars of British literature!"

Hearing this, Michel turned his gaze to Dickens, who was listening attentively. Dickens noticed his gaze, smiled but said nothing, though his eyes revealed a hint of appreciation.

"As for the Poor Law Committee..." Michael's tone softened, becoming somewhat helpless.

"They did issue an official statement saying they would seriously consider the opinions raised in your article and promised to further improve the Poor Law to ensure its more humane implementation."

"But you also know that these official statements should be taken with a grain of salt."

Michael shrugged. "Those old fogies, how could they easily change their minds? But at least they don't dare to spout Malthusian theories like they used to. Now, if anyone mentions them, someone will use your words to shut them up."

Michelle was not surprised by this. Changing a deeply entrenched social system is never a matter of a day or two. But this media battle has at least torn away the veil of hypocrisy, allowing more people to see the truth.

"This is already a huge victory," Michelle said.

Michael nodded in agreement: "Exactly! The London Express has really garnered a lot of attention and sales this time! Our newspapers are in high demand and short supply, selling out as soon as they leave the office every day. Many people are even queuing up in advance just to be the first to see your article."

"Your 'investigative report' is being discussed all over London, and the workers in the East End regard you as a hero. In their hearts, you carry far more weight than those high-ranking nobles and scholars."

These words warmed Michel's heart. He hadn't written that article for fame or fortune; he had plenty of ways to earn more without the risks. Gaining the approval of ordinary people made him feel that his efforts hadn't been in vain.

"By the way, Charles," Michelle said, glancing at Dickens, changing the subject, "how's Oliver Twist going?"

Upon hearing this, Dickens put down his teacup, a troubled look on his face.

"Michelle, this question is giving me a real headache," Dickens said, rubbing his temples.

"Bentley's Journal is about to launch, and I have to catch up with my serialization. But lately I feel like I'm stuck in some places and the writing isn't going smoothly."

"Have you encountered some kind of problem?" Michelle asked.

Dickens sighed: "You know, I want to write about Oliver's experiences in a way that is real enough and shocking enough."

"I've been thinking a lot lately about how Oliver managed to maintain his innocence and kindness in such a sinful and desperate environment."

Dickens looked puzzled.

"I hope he is not just a victim, but a figure who struggles to survive adversity and ultimately finds redemption."

"But I always feel that the current descriptions are not deep enough, not powerful enough."

Dickens looked troubled; clearly, this problem had been bothering him for a long time.

"Especially the characters Fagin and Sykes, they represent the darkest side of London. I hope that through their characters, I can reveal how evil distorts humanity."

As Michel listened to Dickens' words, he understood that the great writer was pursuing an ultimate sense of truth and emotional resonance. This was precisely why his works had endured through the ages and moved countless readers.

"What you've said are indeed the difficulties in the creative process," Michelle said thoughtfully.

"The contrast between Oliver's innocence and the darkness of his surroundings is what makes the theme stand out. And the evil of Fagin and Sykes also needs sufficient foreshadowing and detail to convince the reader."

"That's it!" Dickens stopped and his eyes lit up.

"Michelle, you always get right to the point. But how exactly do I write it to achieve that effect?"

He walked up to Michelle, his eyes filled with anticipation.

"I think you might need to get to know those who live in the shadows better," Michelle said, looking at him.

"It's not just their outward appearance, but also their inner struggles, their desires, their fears. Even the little bit of humanity they reveal."

"Human nature?" Dickens repeated the word, lost in thought.

"Yes, humanity," Michelle said affirmatively.

Even the most vicious criminals were once babies, with an innocent side. What turned them into the way they are now? Was it their environment? Poverty? Or some other reason?

"If you can write these things down and let readers see the root of their descent into evil, it might be more impactful than simply describing evil deeds."

Dickens was stunned, as if struck by lightning, after hearing Michel's words.

"My God, Michel, you are my muse!" Dickens exclaimed excitedly.

"How could I not have thought of that? That's exactly what my work lacks!"

"I've always focused on depicting the surface of evil, neglecting to explore its deeper roots. If I could show readers how people like Fagin and Sykes were gradually pushed into the abyss by society, my work would have more depth and power!"

Michael, watching from the side, couldn't help but laugh. He knew that Michelle had once again enlightened Dickens.

"Thank you, Michelle!" Dickens grasped Michelle's hand and shook it vigorously. "You've opened a new door for me! I feel like my mind has suddenly become clear."

Michel couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed, as he was expressing a view that would become commonplace in later generations.

It was Dickens's talent that gave him this insight.

When Bentley's Notebooks were mentioned, Michel immediately thought of A Study in Scarlet and the betting contract.

"By the way, Charles, how's our special methods going?"

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