Remembering Charlie

This year is the 200th anniversary of the birth of one of the greatest English wordsmiths, Charles Dickens. Recently, people all over the world celebrated his arrival and the subsequent creation of his literary outpourings. Dickens used his intimate knowledge of London's occupants and environs to freeze Victorian social mores for millions of devoted readers. His creative process was a difficult one, as so many of his books and sketches were written under pressure as weekly episodes for magazines. He managed his task so well that fans anxiously awaited the next instalment as if it was a Victorian "Home & Away" production. He had (and has) his detractors, but his true devotees, of whom I am one, can read his stories again and again and still get pleasure from them.

Dickens himself was a complex character, and his story is as interesting as any fiction he created. It seems that so many great writers and poets were egocentric to such an extent that they were unaware of, or ignored, the sensitivities of others. Dickens could be generous and charming; he could write stories that showed a deep knowledge of human emotions but he frequently treated his family, and in particular his wife, abominably. It is humbling to think that even the greatest have flaws.