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haaris 's review for:
David Copperfield
by Charles Dickens
I have always believed that I possess the uncanny ability to pick the book best suited for the events and ordeals I am going through in the moment. It was in October, less than three months after a heart-rending personal tragedy, that I picked David Copperfield, a favourite from my teenage years.
How can I describe the power of this greatest of novels? I took my time to read it, as one must when reading a classic. I marvelled at Dickens' powers of observations. I stopped midway a paragraph, turning my head to the sky, sighing over a particularly poignant moment; or reflecting at the depth of a line. I laughed at the grandiose confidence of Mr Micawber, a comic character beyond comparison. I felt David's earnestness and resolve to cut down his forest of hardships. And I was transported to his maudlin state of mind when he fell in love.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, what I wanted finally happened. It happened unannounced. The novel spoke to me. It spoke directly to my heart. It gave me the kind of friendship only a great book can give. I felt vindicated in my choice and in my presentiment.
I can do a deep analysis of the book. I can tell you about memory. Or about Dickens' genius in authentically conveying each phase of Copperfield's life, through his thoughts, reasoning, and actions. Or about the unforgettable cast of characters, the emotions they draw out from the reader, and their memorable lines. Or about the gentle wisdom it offers the reader, wisdom from experience (tajurba).
It is all for naught. I cannot do justice to the greatness of the novel. What I can say is that there are only a few books I will carry with me everywhere, as long as I can read. And one of them will surely be David Copperfield.
How can I describe the power of this greatest of novels? I took my time to read it, as one must when reading a classic. I marvelled at Dickens' powers of observations. I stopped midway a paragraph, turning my head to the sky, sighing over a particularly poignant moment; or reflecting at the depth of a line. I laughed at the grandiose confidence of Mr Micawber, a comic character beyond comparison. I felt David's earnestness and resolve to cut down his forest of hardships. And I was transported to his maudlin state of mind when he fell in love.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, what I wanted finally happened. It happened unannounced. The novel spoke to me. It spoke directly to my heart. It gave me the kind of friendship only a great book can give. I felt vindicated in my choice and in my presentiment.
I can do a deep analysis of the book. I can tell you about memory. Or about Dickens' genius in authentically conveying each phase of Copperfield's life, through his thoughts, reasoning, and actions. Or about the unforgettable cast of characters, the emotions they draw out from the reader, and their memorable lines. Or about the gentle wisdom it offers the reader, wisdom from experience (tajurba).
It is all for naught. I cannot do justice to the greatness of the novel. What I can say is that there are only a few books I will carry with me everywhere, as long as I can read. And one of them will surely be David Copperfield.