For the past several weeks I have tried repeatedly to comment on your posts, but Blogger has repeatedly refused to accept my comments. Word verification is the hang-up: the letters I type never match the letters I’m told to type, no matter how many times I type them. And proof them.
I’m finished with waiting for the problem to fix itself. I’ll report it to Blogger. In the meantime, I’m sending harmonious vibrations your way.
“Well, then,” returned my aunt… “Now, here you see young David Copperfield, and the question I put to you is, what shall I do with him?”
“What shall you do with him?” said Mr. Dick, feebly, scratching his head. “Oh! Do with him?”
“Yes,” said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinger held up. “Come! I want some very sound advice.”
“Why, if I was you,” said Mr.Dick, considering, and looking vacantly at me, “I should—” The contemplation of me seemed to inspire him with a sudden idea, and he added, briskly, “I should wash him!”
“Janet,” said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which I did not then understand, “Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the bath!” ~ Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
During our (brief) study of Paradise Lost, a high school senior said, “Do you actually read this stuff when you’re home at night?”
Actually, and emphatically, No. I read Dickens.
Today marks Charles Dickens’ 200th birthday, and I’m determined to get my greeting in before I have to add the word belated. That means finishing this in 21 minutes, a daunting task when William is curled up in my lap, trying to control the touchpad and the space bar, and licking my hands. And deleting things. The deleting is bad, but the licking is worse. Ick.
Speak of the devil. He just deleted the paragraph above. I got it back.
When I was twelve, I checked out a copy of David Copperfield from the bookmobile and fell in love. Peggoty, Barkis, Aunt Betsey Trotwood, Mr. McCawber, Little Emily, Dora, Agnes, Uriah Heep, Mr. Dick, King Charles’ head, even the nasty little pug. I followed up with A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend, Dombey and Son…I haven’t read all his books, but I also haven’t given up the idea that someday I’ll be able to say I have.
Author and editor William Dean Howells said that Dickens wasn’t so much a novelist as a caricaturist, and paid homage to Dickens by creating in Annie Kilburn a wrong-headed character who is always trailed by his wife and a passel of children (a la Mr. McCawber) and who frequently speaks of his Growlery (a la Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House).
I like Howells’ novels and think his comment about Dickens has its merits. But I couldn’t care less. Finding that Dickensian gentleman in Howells’ book delighted me. It was like finding an old friend.
Note that although I banged out twenty pages of lit. crit. on Annie Kilburn, I don’t remember that gentleman’s name. I never wrote a word about Dickens, except perhaps on an undergrad exam, but I can recite names from a string of his novels.
I’ve often thought that certain artists give such pleasure to so many, it’s a shame they have to leave. John Gielgud, Scott Joplin, George Gershwin, Lew Ayres, Katharine Hepburn, Alfred Hitchcock, Mark Twain, P. G. Wodehouse, Edith Wharton, Agatha Christie, Emily Dickinson, Victor Borge, Mary Cassatt…They’re keepers. They should be allowed to stay with us, acting, playing, reading, painting, composing, writing.
Charles Dickens is a keeper. But in his absence, books fill his place.
The clock tells me that once again my birthday card will be stamped belated.
But I don’t think the recipient will care.
Happy 200th birthday, Mr. Dickens, and many more.
Photo by Heron on 3rd October 2005. Released into the public domain.