I have a
love-hate relationship with Charles Dickens.
The first novel I read of his was Nicholas
Nickolby, which I enjoyed thoroughly.
It was dark and disturbing, shot through with savage satire. It was long and at times heavy going, but I
got through it, and looked forward to reading more of his work but not
immediately.
I went on to read Bleak House, Domby and Son, and Oliver
Twist – enjoyable all in their way.
However, also in their way is their author’s style that makes the
experience rather heavy going.
I would recommend Dickens
to a reader but I would caution that he is an acquired taste.
If I were to suggest an
introduction to Dickens from his work, I would probably recommend A Tale of Two Cities. It was the first of his novels produced for
weekly serialisation. His earlier serial
novels had been meandering monthly affairs in which he cultivated and indulged
his distinctive narrative style.
A
Tale of Two Cities remains distinctly Dickensian but there is
less of it than usual. Its length is
less challenging than the customary triple deckers of the period, but more than
that, Dickens displays an astonishing restraint in his awe-inspiring command of
rhetoric, narrative devices and comic capers.
Compared to the concise
style of A Tale of Two Cities, his
earlier works begin to look as if they are one-third story and two-thirds
padding to fill the allotted magazine space for a monthly serial.
As I say, Dickens is an
acquired taste. He can spin a long and
intriguing yarn. If any young reader was
thinking of dabbling in Dickens for a spot of recreational reading, I would
suggest trying A Tale of Two Cities
first. One might say that along with Oliver Twist, it is the Dickens-lite of
his novels.
It is an historical
romance set in the time of the French Revolution. It has for its hero the brilliant Sidney
Carton. There is a noble sacrifice. One could easily be seduced by Dickens deft
hand and you may well find yourself hooked upon harder works such as Little Dorrit, possibly the most
diabolically Dickensian novel of all.
A Dickens novel is not to
be feared but it is something to remain wary of. I can read only two or three of his novels a
decade.
Do not get me wrong, I
think Dickens deserves thoroughly his reputation as the greatest of Victorian writers. His astonishing output was influential and
far-reaching. I acknowledge him as the
godfather of pulp; I could probably sing his praises until kingdom come.
However, for all his
command of rhetorical devices, narrative frames, campaigning crusades, social
reform, and savage and sophisticated satire, I find his humour can be somewhat
lowbrow and populist – particularly his odd and sometimes grotesque characters
with their comic capers and idiosyncrasies.
If I had to choose between
reading a novel by Dickens or by the similarly prolific Mary Braddon or Ellen
Wood, I would most probably choose one of the female authors.
However, if it were a
choice between Dickens and his tiresome protégé and sometime collaborator Wilkie
Collins, then Dickens would win without a doubt.
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