David Copperfield

Jazzybee Verlag
5
Free sample

"Of all my books," says Charles Dickens in his preface to this immortal novel, "I like this the best. . . . Like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favorite child. And his name is David Copperfield." When "David Copperfield' appeared in 1850, after "Dombey and Son" and before "Bleak House," it became so popular that its only rival was "Pickwick." Beneath the fiction lies much of the author's personal life, yet it is not an autobiography. The story treats of David's sad experiences as a child, his youth at school, and his struggles for a livelihood, and leaves him in early manhood, prosperous and happily married. Pathos, humor, and skill in delineation, give vitality to this remarkable work; and nowhere has Dickens filled his canvas with more vivid and diversified characters. Forster says that the author's favorites were the Peggotty family, composed of David's nurse Peggotty, who was married to Barkis, the carrier; Daniel Peggotty, her brother, a Yarmouth fisherman; Ham Peggotty, his nephew; the doleful Mrs. Gummidge; and Little Emily, ruined by David's schoolmate, Steerforth. "It has been their fate," says Forster, "as with all the leading figures of his invention, to pass their names into the language and become types; and he has nowhere given happier embodiment to that purity of homely goodness, which, by the kindly and all-reconciling influences of humor, may exalt into comeliness and even grandeur the clumsiest forms of humanity." ...
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Additional Information

Publisher
Jazzybee Verlag
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Published on
Feb 26, 2014
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Pages
1160
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ISBN
9783849643010
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Language
English
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Genres
Fiction / Classics
Fiction / Coming of Age
Fiction / General
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Content Protection
This content is DRM protected.
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Read Aloud
Available on Android devices
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Eligible for Family Library

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Charles Dickens


PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION

I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of

two years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not

leave its merits and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on

its being read as a whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to

suppose that I may have held its threads with a more continuous

attention than anyone else can have given them during its desultory

publication, it is not unreasonable to ask that the weaving may be

looked at in its completed state, and with the pattern finished.

If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the

Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the

common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention

the unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good

manners, in the days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at

Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend that extravagant

conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated after the

Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and of

one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead

anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design

will sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious

design, it would be the curious coincidence that it has been

brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of the public

examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, I

submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these

counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority)

that nothing like them was ever known in this land.

Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether

or no any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I

did not know, myself, until the sixth of this present month, when

I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned

here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up

every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however, down a

certain adjacent 'Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey', I came to

'Marshalsea Place:' the houses in which I recognised, not only as

the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms

that arose in my mind's-eye when I became Little Dorrit's

biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the

largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally intelligent

explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very nearly

correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came

by his information, I don't know; he was a quarter of a century too
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