PANIC ON THE STREETS OF LONDON
I have been doing a bit of reading lately. Outloud. To Nicole. A trend I started about a month ago, when things had frozen over outside, and I was forced into hibernation. Today, it's pretty nice out, despite a temperature below 20 degrees.
Anyway, Nicole and I are curled up on the red couch again, and I am telling her the tale of little Davey Copperfield, as it unfolds for the very first time for both of us. All this time, all my immense love of books, and criticism of books, and I have never read a Charles Dickens novel. Not even the classic A Christmas Carol. (Though I've seen countless reditions on stage and on film) Go figure.
Dickens is considered, by more than a few people, to be the greatest writer of all time. And if that wasn't enough prompting for me, Nick Hornby, (who I AM familiar with), says, in his lateset book of essays on the books he reads, that Dicken's novel David Copperfield, is the best novel ever written. Actually, he says that Dickens is the greatest writer ever. That he had exhausted the bibliography, except Copperfield, and that while reading this final of Dicken's books, decided that it was his greatest. So the logic follows that this must be the best and greatest novel ever written. At least in Hornby's eyes. Which is good enough for me.
So, as reading outloud takes it's toll on your vocal cords, and because I have to wait and contend with Nicole's schedule and my mood, I am only on page 125 after 3 weeks. Only 700 pages left. But, let me tell you, it is a great pleasure.
My opinion, after avoiding Dickens for all these years, for fear of his long-winded-ness, is that Dickens probably is the greatest writer of all times. Even without Hornby's opinion. The richness, the insight, the detailed melancholy, the character, the voice of that age is so captivating. Why did I wait for so long? The thing that I find the most compelling, though, in the way that Dickens spins his myths across the grid of a ravaged and bleak England, is the heart of his hero. (I say this only being familiar with little Davey at this point, but I expect it to be true in the case of all his books - which I intend to devour in the future.) It's good to be shaken up through the forcefullness of good literature, and that's what Dickens has a knack for. It's inspiring. So, if you haven't read him yet, please...go out and get one. Any one. Start with A Tale of Two Cities even. Nicole tells me that's a good one. Although, we did have a little dispute over what was the best start to a novel ever. You tell me..."It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." Overrated or not. I'd be willing to bet that the best stuff is to be found on the inside.
Anyway, Nicole and I are curled up on the red couch again, and I am telling her the tale of little Davey Copperfield, as it unfolds for the very first time for both of us. All this time, all my immense love of books, and criticism of books, and I have never read a Charles Dickens novel. Not even the classic A Christmas Carol. (Though I've seen countless reditions on stage and on film) Go figure.
Dickens is considered, by more than a few people, to be the greatest writer of all time. And if that wasn't enough prompting for me, Nick Hornby, (who I AM familiar with), says, in his lateset book of essays on the books he reads, that Dicken's novel David Copperfield, is the best novel ever written. Actually, he says that Dickens is the greatest writer ever. That he had exhausted the bibliography, except Copperfield, and that while reading this final of Dicken's books, decided that it was his greatest. So the logic follows that this must be the best and greatest novel ever written. At least in Hornby's eyes. Which is good enough for me.
So, as reading outloud takes it's toll on your vocal cords, and because I have to wait and contend with Nicole's schedule and my mood, I am only on page 125 after 3 weeks. Only 700 pages left. But, let me tell you, it is a great pleasure.
My opinion, after avoiding Dickens for all these years, for fear of his long-winded-ness, is that Dickens probably is the greatest writer of all times. Even without Hornby's opinion. The richness, the insight, the detailed melancholy, the character, the voice of that age is so captivating. Why did I wait for so long? The thing that I find the most compelling, though, in the way that Dickens spins his myths across the grid of a ravaged and bleak England, is the heart of his hero. (I say this only being familiar with little Davey at this point, but I expect it to be true in the case of all his books - which I intend to devour in the future.) It's good to be shaken up through the forcefullness of good literature, and that's what Dickens has a knack for. It's inspiring. So, if you haven't read him yet, please...go out and get one. Any one. Start with A Tale of Two Cities even. Nicole tells me that's a good one. Although, we did have a little dispute over what was the best start to a novel ever. You tell me..."It was the best of times. It was the worst of times." Overrated or not. I'd be willing to bet that the best stuff is to be found on the inside.
posted by The Passenger at 1:51 PM
1 Comments:
I, however, told you that Count of Monte Cristo was the best novel - and have yet to hear of you reading it. Give me my book back.
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