David Copperfield

I've just finished one of the most rewarding reading experiences of my life, a two month sojourn with one of the world's great authors and his favorite of his own novels (What's that you say? My exams are next week? I should be outlining?). For three hundred pages, I enjoyed a singularly splendid depiction of childhood, filled with the most extraordinary assortment of characters I've ever encountered. This was followed by five hundred pages of such compelling and interwoven plotlines, I can not begin to fathom how Dickens managed to write it as a serial and yet keep it all together. To be plain: I laughed, I cried, and I loved every single page. I have a real sense of sadness that I'm now saying goodbye to Peggotty, Mr. Micawber, and Betsey Trotwood, among others. I will miss them.

A lesser author might not have been able to overcome the convenient coincidences that Dickens delights in using, with long-forgotten characters returning to the story in the most unlikely of fashions. This, and other undeniable flaws, provide much ammunition for those want to dislike the book. That is their right. But to do so, I think one must willfully refuse to be seduced by a truly great and moving novel. I'm not the only one who thinks so, of course. It was, like many of the time, Tolstoy's favorite book:

If you sift the world's prose literature, Dickens will remain; sift Dickens, David Copperfield will remain.

Agreed. And though others of Dickens' books might be more serious, more profound, I get the sense that none are more of a pleasure to read. I'm going to savor this, and look forward to the distant day when I am ready to pick it up again.