What impressed Lewis the most was the interconnectedness of knowledge. In the past, he was in a hurry to understand things, and when he gained a little knowledge, he would archive them and put them in separate drawers in his mind. Now, he firmly believes that everything is connected to everything else, from the stars in the vastest space to the thousands of atoms in the sand beneath his feet. As a result, he found himself constantly searching for a connection between everything from under the sun to everything beyond the sun. The more he knew, the more passionately he worshipped the universe and life, including his own.

"You fool!" He looked in the mirror and said, "You want to write, and you've written, but you don't have anything to write about." What can you have in your heart? Some childish thoughts, some half-baked emotions, a lot of undigested beauty, a lot of dark ignorance. Do you want to write too? You want to create beauty, but you don't even know the nature of beauty, how do you create it? You want to write about life, but you don't know the fundamental characteristics of life. If you want to write about the world, you always write about the vision of life, but the world is a mysterious mystery to you, and all you can write is the life idea that you don't understand. But don't be discouraged, Lewis, lad, you can still write, you still have a little knowledge, and now that you've found your way, you can know more. If you're lucky, you might be able to know everything you can one day. At that point, you'll be ready to write! ”

He brought his great discovery to Momoe Yamaguchi, wanting to share his joy and amazement with her. But she listened silently, not enthusiastic, not as excited as he was. Those Sundays were Martin's big days, and the most gratifying thing was that he was able to be with Yamaguchi Momoe, and secondly, he was getting more and more equal to the young people of her class. He found that although they had been educated for many years, he was not inferior to them intellectually......

He finally decided not to listen to Momoe Yamaguchi, he still had to write, and he had to make money. No one wanted his manuscript. 38 manuscripts traveled endlessly between magazines. What do other writers do? He spent a great deal of time in the free reading room studying what had been published by others, eagerly and critically studying them, comparing them with his own work, speculating, and guessing over and over what they had found the know-how to sell manuscripts.

He was astonished at the sheer number of lifeless publications. These works do not reveal the slightest light or color, there is no life breathing, but they can be sold, and some of the last works have a first-class reputation. He was bewildered by the abundance of short stories, the novels filled with millions of words everywhere. He admits that they are written intelligently and lightly, but without vitality and reality, life is so bizarre and wonderful, lovely life, full of countless questions, dreams, and heroic actions, but those novels are only about mediocre life, and the advent of first-class works does not depend on coding thousands of words in front of the computer every day! He felt the boredom, monotony, tedium, madness, colorfulness, and stress, tension of life, and there was no doubt that this was something worth writing about! He wants to praise career leaders who have lost hope, celebrities who have been blown into the sky, lovers who love to death.

"Is this because literary magazine editors are themselves mediocre and vulgar?" "Or is it because these editors, editors, and readers are afraid of life?" he asked. Or are you afraid of something else? Do the current investors of online literature projects understand literature? But his main problem was that he didn't even know a writer or editor. Not only did he not know writers, but he also didn't know anyone who had tried to write. No one told him, no one reminded him, no one gave him advice. He began to wonder if the security reviewer and editor were real people. They appear to be screws in the chain of a machine, but in fact they are a machine part. He poured his soul into novels, essays, and poems, which were ultimately left to the machine.

Lewis was a good fighter, conscientious, determined and tenacious, he fought in the dark, no one to give him advice or encourage him. He struggled between his teeth in frustration. He has faith in himself, but this confidence is lonely. Even Yamaguchi Momoe had no confidence, and she asked him to devote himself to studying, and although she did not object to his writing, she did not approve of it. He never asked her to read his work, and that was because of an overly careful attitude. "Do you want to be famous?" She asked him suddenly. "Yes, a little bit." "That's part of the adventure," he admits. What matters is not the fame itself, but the process of becoming famous. And for me, fame is just a way to a goal, and for that purpose, I want to be famous very much. "The purpose is you!" He wanted to add it, but he didn't.

However, she was now busy thinking about envisioning a career for him that was at least viable. She didn't ask what the ultimate goal he was suggesting. Literature was not his business, and she was convinced that he could talk eloquently, but not in literary terms. She compares him with the literary masters she loves, with his hopeless weakness. But she didn't tell him all of it, and her strange interest in him made her accommodating him. She thinks that his desire to write is just a hobby, not an aspiration, and will disappear naturally in the future, especially when encountering difficulties. Then he would go on to the more serious things in life, and he would succeed, and she knew that he would not fail if he was strong-willed and in good health, as long as he was willing to give up writing.

Rejections have been piling up for two weeks, and there will be more rejections tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, until all the manuscripts are returned. He sat down and looked at the table with a heavy heart. There was an ink mark on the table, and he suddenly realized that he loved it. "Dear old table." He said, "I had a great time with you. At the end of the day, you've been a friend to me, never refused to do things for me, never gave me a rejection note to answer for my incompetence, and never complained about overtime. He put his elbows on the table, and buried his face, and his throat was infarcted, and he wanted to cry. Poor lad. He muttered in the mirror, "You've been defeated again now, beaten to pulp." You're knocked down, you're out. Lewis returned to his old life, the gray trajectory, prostitution, gambling, drugs, alcoholism......

A few weeks later. His knees were shaking, he felt weak, and he staggered back to the edge of the bed and sat on the edge of the bed, the old days still dominating him. He looked at the hut inexplicably, not knowing where he was, until he caught a glimpse of the manuscript in the corner. Then the wheel of memories flew through time, making him aware of the present, of the book he had opened and the world he had gained from it, of his dreams and ambitions, of his love for a pale, angelic girl. The girl was sensitive, pampered, and light-hearted, and she would have been horrified if she had seen the old life repeating itself before his eyes, even for a moment, but it was only a moment of all the sordid life he had ever experienced. He stood up and came to the mirror, facing himself. "You're going to crawl out of the mud, Lewis." He solemnly said, "You are to take the best inheritance from all the great powers." He scrutinized himself and smiled......

The alarm went off, and Lewis woke up, he hated sleep, and as soon as he fell asleep, he forgot everything. And he has too much to do, too much life to live, and he is not willing to let sleep take up a quarter of an hour. But he didn't follow his regular schedule, he had no more unfinished novels to write, no new novels to conceive. Today, he is about to start a new struggle, and he will not write again for a while. With a sense of sadness of leaving his homeland to say goodbye to his relatives, he looked at the manuscript in the corner of the house. It's all for them, and he's going to say goodbye to the manuscript. "I don't understand." He muttered, "Either the editors don't understand it, and they publish a lot of worse work every month." They publish terrible things, but they are so common that they don't think there's anything wrong with them. ”

When Lewis left Osaka, he didn't need to say goodbye to anyone, and the whole Yamaguchi family went on vacation to Mars. He boarded a solar-powered cruise ship to Junlian and went to an employment agency. "Looking for a job?" One man asked, "What can you do?" "You can do any job, and you can endure any hardship." Lewis replied. The man nodded.

"I think it's good. My name is Li Riqing and I am looking for a laundry worker. "I can't do it." Lewis seemed to see himself scalding the fluffy red dress that the woman was wearing, and thought it was funny. But seeing that the man was pleasing to the eye, he added: "I will do the laundry." Li Riqing was obviously thinking, and after a while, "Listen to me, let's sum up, would you like to hear it?" Lewis nodded. It's a laundromat, and it's in the south, and it's a hot spring. Two people do it, one leader, one helper. I'm the boss, you're not working for me, you're just my helper, are you willing? ”

Lewis thought about it for a while, and thought it was good, he could work for a few months to relax, he didn't have to ask his parents for money, and he could still work and study hard at the same time. On Saturday evening, exhausted, he arrived at the Senji Hot Springs, where Li Riqing received him with great interest. "When I went to look for you, the clothes of the past few days were piled up again." He explained, "Your box has been delivered. Put it in your house. How can you call that thing a box, and what is it in? BRICS? Li Riqing sat on the edge of the bed, and Lewis opened the box. Li Riqing's eyes widened, watching him take out a few shirts, underwear, and underwear, and then a book, and then take it out and still a book. "Are they all books?" He asked. Lewis nodded, and set the book on a table that had been used as a washstand in the room. "There's no time to read here, you just have to work and sleep."

At six o'clock the next morning, Lewis was woken up and ready for breakfast. There was a bathtub in the laundry building, and he took a cold bath in it, which surprised Li Riqing. "You're in awesome health!" As they sat down to eat in a corner of the hot spring inn's kitchen, Mr. Li said. They were joined by technicians and florists. Everyone was in a hurry during the meal, with a straight face, and rarely spoke. From their conversation, Lewis realized how far he was from them. He was so discouraged by their weakness that he wanted to leave. So he hurriedly stuffed breakfast into his stomach and walked out of the kitchen door, and let out a long sigh of relief that breakfast was hard to eat. "I'd rather work in the tropics than do laundry." Lewis said with a smile. "I don't have any work without laundry." Li Riqing said solemnly, "I don't know anything but do laundry." "Lewis learned a lot of work. One afternoon in the first week, he and Li Riqing wiped out the 100 white shirts.