1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

The poem has been read.

Michelle bowed slightly and took a half step back.

The hall remained deathly silent, but the expressions on people's faces were extremely complex.

They were moved by the pure and sincere emotions in Michel's poetry, yet astonished by its unprecedented form...

This... can be called poetry?

There is no rhyme, and the lengths vary.

It's less like poetry and more like reciting a piece of prose.

The length of the sentences changes freely with the flow of emotions...

Dickens' smile gradually froze as he keenly sensed the awkward atmosphere in the hall.

He wanted to say something, but when the words reached his lips, he didn't know where to begin.

Michel's poem is incredibly innovative!

Even he himself was confused by the form of the poem...

After a period of whispering and murmurs among the people.

Finally, an old and dignified voice broke the silence.

"This is utterly absurd!"

Among the crowd, an elderly gentleman with gray hair, a thin face, and a tuft of beard stepped forward.

Although his tuxedo was made of excellent material, the style was somewhat outdated, and he exuded the stubborn air of an old-fashioned scholar...

"This is utter blasphemy against poetry!"

The old gentleman's voice was not loud, but it was firm and resounding.

"It's Mr. Edgar Pope!"

Some people in the crowd began to whisper among themselves, and their gazes toward the old gentleman held a newfound respect.

Edgar Pope, a renowned old poet in London, is known for his strict meter and classical style.

He is the most steadfast defender of traditional poetry!

Mr. Popper stared at Michelle with a sharp gaze, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his eyes...

"Young man, poetry is the architecture of language, the temple of thought! It requires harmonious rhythm, regular meter, and refined words!"

"What you just read was nothing more than a jumble of sentences without any structure... It's disrespectful to the reader and to art itself!"

These words immediately resonated with many people...

"Mr. Popper is right! This isn't poetry at all!"

"I admit, the emotions within seem decent, but the overall dynamic is a complete disaster..."

"Perhaps this is what they call 'groundbreaking'? But I'm sorry, I can't appreciate it."

A chorus of agreement rose and fell in an instant...

Those who had previously been influenced by Disraeli and the Countess's assessments and held expectations for Michel now showed expressions of disappointment...

They felt they had been fooled.

How dare a novelist who doesn't even understand the basic rules of poetry recite his "original poems" in front of the most talented people in all of London at Gore's mansion?

This is an absolute joke!

The Countess of Brexington frowned slightly.

She actually greatly admired Michel's poem, but Mr. Popper was an elder statesman in London's literary circles, so she couldn't openly refute him.

Fortunately, as the hostess of the salon, she was expected to maintain harmony in the atmosphere.

"Mr. Popper, perhaps Mr. Michel just wants to bring us something... different."

The Countess tried to ease the tension with her gentle voice.

"Innovation always takes courage, doesn't it?"

"Madam, this is not innovation, it's ignorance!"

Mr. Popper's attitude remained firm.

"If you try to fly before you've even learned to walk, the only result will be a shattered crash!"

He looked at Michelle again, his tone full of lecturing.

"Young man, I admit your novel is well-written and very interesting. But the halls of literature have thresholds, especially poetry."

"I advise you to go back to writing your novels and stop tarnishing poetry with this kind of stuff..."

The atmosphere in the entire side hall was extremely oppressive.

Dickens was sweating profusely. He wanted to rush forward and say a few words in defense of Michel, but his friend held him back.

In this situation, anything he says will only add fuel to the fire.

All eyes were on Michel, waiting to see how he would handle the crisis.

Their gazes held sympathy, schadenfreude, and mostly, a mocking anticipation of a good show...

However, to everyone's surprise, Michelle showed no sign of panic.

He even had a calm smile on his face...

He simply listened quietly to all the criticism and accusations.

This composure made Mr. Pope feel somewhat displeased.

Michelle's composure made him feel like he had punched a cotton ball.

"What? Have you run out of things to say?"

Mr. Popper snorted coldly, his tone aggressive.

"I used to think that someone who could write 'The Last Leaf' would at least know how to be humble. Now it seems I overestimated you."

Michelle looked up and her gaze fell on Mr. Popper.

He finally spoke.

"Mr. Popper, thank you for your guidance."

Michelle's voice was calm and gentle.

"You mean that my poem lacks rhyme and doesn't conform to the proper form, therefore it's not a poem? Is that what you mean?"

"Isn't that so?" Mr. Popper countered.

Michelle shook her head gently.

"No!"

He paused, looked around the room, and spoke slowly and deliberately.

"I simply believe that the soul of poetry should not be bound by the shackles of form."

As soon as he finished speaking, the entire room erupted in uproar.

This is no longer an excuse, but a blatant challenge!

Challenging the traditions of the entire British poetry scene!

Mr. Popper was so angry that his face turned red and his beard trembled.

"What an arrogant brat!"

He pointed at Michelle, his voice trembling with anger.

"You don't understand poetry at all! You're just making excuses for your own incompetence and shallowness!"

"Incompetent? Superficial?"

Michelle repeated the two words, her smile deepening.

Unaffected by Mr. Popper's anger, he took two steps forward and stood in a more central position in the side room.

The bright lights fell on him, outlining the sharp silhouette of his suit.

He exudes a unique charm!

"Mr. Popper, may I ask a question?"

Michelle's voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a peculiar power that instantly silenced the noisy hall.

"In your opinion, what is the essence of poetry?"

Mr. Popper was taken aback, clearly not expecting Michelle to suddenly raise such a question.

He knows this all too well...

He answered instinctively, "The essence of poetry is, of course, beauty! It's the beauty of order and rhythm that is revealed through exquisite language and rigorous structure!"

"You're right."

Michelle nodded in agreement.

This reaction once again surprised everyone.

Isn't he challenging tradition? How could he agree with Mr. Popper's views?

"Order and rhythm are indeed important components of poetry, giving it a classical and solemn beauty."

Michelle then changed the subject, her tone becoming sharper.

"But is that all there is to poetry?"

"Isn't the flow of emotions and the resonance of souls also a kind of beauty?"

Isn't the freedom to express one's inner voice the very meaning of poetry?

His voice gradually rose, carrying a resounding power.

"When a person's emotional expression cannot be contained by any meter or form, should he sacrifice that most precious emotion for the sake of so-called form?"

"My poem just now may not conform to your defined rules."

"But I would like to ask everyone here."

Michelle's gaze slowly swept over every face in the crowd.

"When you hear it, are your hearts not moved in the slightest?"

Silence fell over the crowd.

No one can answer this question.

Because the answer is yes.

No matter how much they despised the poem's form, they could not deny that at the moment Michel recited it, they were indeed moved by the quiet and profound love it conveyed.

It is a power that transcends all linguistic skills and reaches straight to the heart!

Seeing the silence of the crowd, Mr. Popper's face grew even more grim.

He felt his authority being eroded little by little by this young man...

"That's just sophistry!"

He shouted sternly.

"You're using a fallacy! We're discussing the meter and rules of poetry!"

"Emotions without the support of meter are nothing but pointless moaning!"

"That's right, anyone can claim to be emotionally rich, but not everyone can write decent poetry!"

Another gentleman chimed in.

"Ultimately, the reason you wrote this kind of thing is simply because you can't write a real, metrically correct poem at all!"

This viewpoint was immediately accepted by most of the people present.

They prefer to believe that Michel is not innovating, but simply covering up his incompetence.

This aligns with their previous worldview.

After all, this young man had never published a single poem before.

Even if he wrote poetry in the womb, he could never have reached the level of establishing a new school of thought...

Dickens' heart leaped into his throat once again.

This situation is too passive.

The other party was very clever; instead of getting bogged down in discussing the essence of poetry, they focused on creative ability.

This directly negates Michel's creative ability.

If you can't even write a single classical poem, what are you talking about innovating?

This is almost a hopeless situation with no chance of turning the tide...

Unless... unless Michelle can actually write a perfect metrical poem on the spot.

But how is that possible?

The creation of poetry requires inspiration and repeated refinement; it cannot be done simply by talking about it.

The Countess of Brexington's palms were also sweating.

Looking at the young man standing alone in the room, facing criticism from the entire London literary scene, she felt a complex mix of emotions.

There was admiration, worry, and a hint of expectation that she herself was unaware of.

She also secretly hoped that this young man, who always brought surprises, could create another miracle.

"I see."

After listening to all the accusations, Michelle's expression became increasingly relaxed.

He nodded as if he had finally understood something.

"So, you all believe that the reason I write free verse is because I can't write metrical verse?"

"Isn't that right?"

Mr. Popper sneered, seemingly confident of victory.

"Of course not."

Michelle's answer was simple, straightforward, and full of strong confidence.

He looked at Mr. Popper, and at all those who questioned him, and slowly began to speak.

"I chose free verse not because I can't, but because I want to write it this way!"

"I want to tell everyone that poetry has another possibility..."

Michelle paused at this point, giving everyone time to process what she had to say.

Are you kidding me? You think I'd avoid your attacks?

Then, he said in an extremely confident tone.

"Since you all have doubts about my abilities..."

"Then, I don't mind showing you what you all know as real poetry!"

The words had barely left his lips when the entire room fell silent...

Is this young man crazy?

Does he mean, "Do you want another poem, or a regulated verse?"

At that moment, even Dickens felt his heart was about to explode.

Michelle, what exactly are you trying to do?!

Under everyone's gaze, Michelle's expression softened.

His gaze seemed to pierce through time and space, landing on some distant place...

Michelle's voice rang out again, but in a completely different tone than the previous poem.

This time, his voice carried endless tenderness and a touch of melancholy...

As if traversing a long period of time, he recited a poem aloud:

When you are old, your hair is white, and you are drowsy...

If you're dozing by the fire, please take down this book of poems.

Read it slowly, recalling the gentleness in your eyes in the past.

Recalling their once heavy shadows.