Take a photo of a barcode or cover
bookishwendy 's review for:
Oliver Twist
by Charles Dickens
Oh Oliver Twist. I can't quite bring myself to love you, but I can't hate you either. (Same goes for you, Mr. Dickens.)
Oh paragon of the Victorian era novel. You of the interminable sentences pearled with semicolons. You of the "groundbreaking now, but cliche in 100 years" angelic orphan plot. You of the improbable coincidences to tie all loose ends. You of the Socially Responsible Moral Messages (TM). You of the snide, fussy, all-seeing, moralizing, and immensely intrusive narrator. You that hilariously substitute words such as the once-harmless "ejaculate" for "exclaim" and expect us not to laugh. You that drop ear-clanging racist terms or anti-Semitic characterizations in the naive expectation that posterity won't flinch. You that assume women come in three types: virginal angel, sluttily fallen, and old.
And yet. And yet. The descriptions. The fog. The filth.
Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.
And yet. The often loathsome, frequently hilarious, and secretly heartbreaking secondary characters.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.
And yet. The breathtaking moments of great drama and violence.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.
Is Oliver Twist still worth reading today? I would say yes. With so much modern literature--specifically anything slightly literary and featuring orphans--labeled "Dickensian" it's worth seeing precisely where this comparison originates. As a history buff, it's worth experiencing how Victorian London looked, sounded and smelled according to someone who was there (as the period has been very romanticized since). I won't deny that Oliver himself is more of an empty vessel than a character--but what literate child didn't once imagine her/himself in his shoes? "Childhood" as we know it, now a time for exploration and creativity, wasn't even a concept at the time this was written (though may well have paved the way for it, as far as I know). The most interesting and emotionally engaging characters here are the morally muddied ones, not the fair, innocent waifs. Dickens, too, is at his best when he lets himself slum in the gutter, and snark on about parochial workhouses, but deflates disappointingly when he resurfaces in the nicer suburbs. This isn't as complex an orphan story as Great Expectations, but the foundations for this later work are visibly laid here.
Also, nostalgia for the musical helps.
Oh paragon of the Victorian era novel. You of the interminable sentences pearled with semicolons. You of the "groundbreaking now, but cliche in 100 years" angelic orphan plot. You of the improbable coincidences to tie all loose ends. You of the Socially Responsible Moral Messages (TM). You of the snide, fussy, all-seeing, moralizing, and immensely intrusive narrator. You that hilariously substitute words such as the once-harmless "ejaculate" for "exclaim" and expect us not to laugh. You that drop ear-clanging racist terms or anti-Semitic characterizations in the naive expectation that posterity won't flinch. You that assume women come in three types: virginal angel, sluttily fallen, and old.
And yet. And yet. The descriptions. The fog. The filth.
Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.
And yet. The often loathsome, frequently hilarious, and secretly heartbreaking secondary characters.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was seated.
And yet. The breathtaking moments of great drama and violence.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.
Is Oliver Twist still worth reading today? I would say yes. With so much modern literature--specifically anything slightly literary and featuring orphans--labeled "Dickensian" it's worth seeing precisely where this comparison originates. As a history buff, it's worth experiencing how Victorian London looked, sounded and smelled according to someone who was there (as the period has been very romanticized since). I won't deny that Oliver himself is more of an empty vessel than a character--but what literate child didn't once imagine her/himself in his shoes? "Childhood" as we know it, now a time for exploration and creativity, wasn't even a concept at the time this was written (though may well have paved the way for it, as far as I know). The most interesting and emotionally engaging characters here are the morally muddied ones, not the fair, innocent waifs. Dickens, too, is at his best when he lets himself slum in the gutter, and snark on about parochial workhouses, but deflates disappointingly when he resurfaces in the nicer suburbs. This isn't as complex an orphan story as Great Expectations, but the foundations for this later work are visibly laid here.
Also, nostalgia for the musical helps.