I’ve been feeling a little out of sorts since I returned
from Hilton Head last week, and have been unable to pinpoint the source of this
anti-sorts-ness. Randomly, on Wednesday Patch asked me to drive her to the
library so she could pick up some reading material. I never turn down a trip to
the local biblioteca, and continued that habit. Once there, browsing the
shelves with no ulterior motive in mind, I rounded a corner and there it was:
Martin
Chuzzlewit, by Charles Dickens, in the pristine and handsome
Everyman’s Library edition.
I knew instantly why I was experiencing this sort-less-ness.
I haven’t read a Dickens novel since we’ve relocated to Texas, nearly eighteen
months ago, and I always enjoy reading a Dickens around Thanksgiving.
Well, I like to say that. But in reality, the “tradition”
only started in 2013, and I’ve never read Dickens two Thanksgivings in a row. In
a sketchy order I’ve read The Pickwick
Papers, Great Expectations, and David Copperfield. In between I’ve read
other non-Dickensian classics, such as Billy Budd, Ben-Hur, and, unsuccessfully, The Brothers Karamazov, in addition to
heavy stuff about the JFK assassination, another topical November favorite,
such as Mailer’s Oswald and Posner’s Case Closed.
Now I knew I needed to make up for lost time. I must
read Martin Chuzzlewit to make up for
lost time, and an old promise to perhaps the greatest novelist of the English
language.
Promise? you say. Indeed, “promise,” I reply. Promise
to set a great karmic injustice to rights. You see, thirty-five years ago, as a
poor, struggling underclassmen in a prestigious northern New Jersey high
school, I was assigned to read A Tale of
Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, for an English class.
I procrastinated.
Then, delayed.
Furthermore, I dithered. Dallied. Put it out of mind.
In fact, I don’t ever recall cracking open the book, if ever I did take it out
from the library.
No. With a blue-book essay looming on some unknown
questions concerning the book, I did, unfortunately, what many students who
take the low road do.
I cheated.
Sort of. I read the Cliff Notes for A Tale of Two Cities the night before,
and prayed to the gods of B.S. I’d be able to bluff my way through that blue
book.
I did. I remember getting a B on the test. Probably finished
the class with a 90 or 92.
Seventeen years passed with Charles Dickens, London,
Paris, and the French Revolution completely out of mind. Then, taking the train
one morning into NYC for a horrible job I was working, I realized I had to set
the scales of blindfolded justice to balance. To pay the piper. To make amends
to a man whose work I short shrift. Short-shrifted? I dunno. It just made me
feel bad whenever I thought of it.
So, during Thanksgiving 2002, I read A Tale of Two Cities, for the first time, cover-to-cover.
This is all a long way of stating that, from this
December 5th forward, Hopper shall unfailingly read a Charles Dickens novel
every Thanksgiving. Hopefully the Good Lord will give me remaining years to do
so. After all, I have about eight novels to get through before I begin re-reads
*. For those so inclined to inquire, those eight are, in order that they were published:
Oliver
Twist
Nicholas
Nickleby
The
Old Curiosity Shop
Barnaby
Rudge
Dombey
and Son
Bleak
House
Hard
Times
Our
Mutual Friend
As of this posting I am 155 pages into the 875-page Martin Chuzzlewit. I was a little
nervous I’d not finish it before year’s end, but I think I’ll have it done by
Christmas, leaving enough time to put away an old On-Deck SF paperback before
2023.
Happy Reading!
One of Hopper's numerous writing gurus
* The versions of Dickens novels I’ve read range from
around 550 pages (Great Expectations)
to David Copperfield (920 pages). If
I assume the average Dickens novel to be 750 pages, I’m looking at 6,000 pages.
Expectations took me three weeks to
read, Copperfield six weeks, so the
average Dickens novel takes me a full month to get through. 6,000 pages and eight months. Should be fun.
