I’ve read a lot of Charles Dickens. I started when my son began reading to me from David Copperfield on a trip between Memphis and Notre Dame. I fell in love instantly. I loved how he painted pictures in my head of characters and events that, even though sometimes dreadful, connected with my soul.
I feel more human when I read Dickens.
Some people, especially people who have read much of Dickens, might laugh at that. They might accuse me of not realizing that Dickens probably never wrote about a truly human character in his life. He was romantic in his portrayals of every person in his stories. Good, bad, happy, sad, rich or poor, his characters were not representative of real life. They were exaggerations and caricatures.
All I know is that when I read Dickens, I am motivated to be more honest, more transparent, and more accepting of my own flaws, as well as the flaws of my fellow man. I feel more gracious and more tender. I feel more able to connect with the people in my life.
How can this be? How did Charles Dickens write such fantastic tales about fantastic people and at the same time engender in me an appreciation for the mundane human experience?
I don’t know. (I do have an idea, but it’s not formulated well enough to put in writing) So I’m going to think about it and write more later.