When my mother was a teenager in Exeter, New Hampshire, she’d sometimes respond to a potential suitor’s request for a date with the line, “No thank you, I’d rather stay home and read Dickens.”
When I was a ninth grader in Parkersburg, West Virginia, my English teacher Ms. Pettigrew seemed taken right out of a Dickens novel. Space precludes providing a full Dickensian description of Miss Pettigrew; let’s just say that her name fit her looks.
In my freshman English class at Bowdoin College, we had to write a paper about “Great Expectations.” My English teacher, the horned-rim glasses-wearing Mr. Arp, also resembled a Dickens character. He wrote an “F” on my paper and, as I recall, provided zero comments. That experience cooled me not just on Dickens but on my desire to take more English classes at Bowdoin, although I came to my senses in my junior year. (Note to Mr. Arp who left Bowdoin after one year: Ms. Pettigrew liked my writing.)
When Tina and I went to London in the mid-90s, I toured the Charles Dickens Museum and became fascinated with the celebrated storyteller’s simple digs.
This past summer, I decided to give Dickens a chance. I’ve completed, to date, in order, “Oliver Twist,” “David Copperfield,” “Great Expectations” (again), “A Tale of Two Cities,” “The Old Curiosity Shop” and “Nicholas Nickleby.”
“Nicholas Nickleby” ranks as my favorite on this list. The characters seemed more nuanced, the flow smoother and the story more compelling. Also, I found myself skimming fewer paragraphs in which Dickens’ descriptive flourishes seemed a tad overdone. The fact that he was paid by the word for the serialization of his novels in newspapers perhaps explains his verbosity. Also, people back then spent more time reading and no time listening to the radio or watching television.
In any event, it’s been much fun to become steeped in Dickens tales, especially with all the crazy and depressing news going on. I plan to tackle “Pickwick Papers” next.
While enjoying my Dickens binge, I’ve developed great admiration for his prodigious output, especially given his background and circumstances. Dickens became a champion of the poor because he’d been there, having worked in a factory at age 12. He had only two years of formal schooling. He wrote 15 (long) novels, five novellas and hundreds of short stories — all with a pen, none using a typewriter — before he died at age 58. Clearly, the guy was as disciplined as he was creative.
Dickens, at his best, is a master at creating compelling scenes of London in the mid-1800s. Moreover, he manages to convey the full sweep of human emotions exhibited by a glorious stew of characters: love, anger, sadness, revenge and cunning. He also tends to favor the down-and-out versus the pompous and proud, a sensible stance by my lights.
I’m surprised that I’ve emerged as a fan of Dickens, since I generally favor writers who can say a lot using a few words, such as Hemingway, the master of spare prose, or the sublime poet Mary Oliver. When I write flash fiction, the phrases, “Only use words that advance the story.” Or “Less is more.” ring in my ears.
Maybe it’s a sign of advancing age that I can say to myself, “Slow down, take your time, smell the flowers, enjoy the ride. In the case of reading a Dickens novel, that means, savor the setting and the characters, the rambling tale and the wordy writing style. After all, do I really have something better to do? When I think about it, maybe not. My dear mother Moo would surely understand.
David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.co
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
