For a 2019 New Year’s resolution, of sorts, I vowed to try to read at least one book that is more challenging than my normal fare. In furtherance of that goal, I went to the library and picked up Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, in the Penguin Classics edition. That means the book comes with a lengthy introduction, an appendix, and lots of footnotes — all of which make the book seem more mentally demanding than, say, your standard sci fi fiction.
Admittedly, presenting a Charles Dickens novel as some kind of awesome intellectual gauntlet is a bit dodgy. After all, Dickens was easily the most popular writer of his day, read avidly in both England and America, and David Copperfield was one of his most popular books. Dickens made huge amounts of money through his writings and his literary tours, where he would read aloud from his works to large live audiences. Some sources contend that, during his heyday, 1 in 10 Britons who could read read Dickens’ books — which is pretty astonishing, if true.
But here’s the thing: those readers of the past didn’t read David Copperfield in the form of a Norton Critical Edition, or a Penguin Classics volume, knowing that the book is generally considered to be one of the Greatest Novels of All Time. Anyone who has taken a British Literature or Comparative Literature course in college knows about the “critical editions,” which expect the reader to carefully digest every sentence, pick up nuances and associate them with historical and cultural figures of the time, analyze the plot and the characteristics of the characters, and correctly interpret the text for underlying messages. Even now, decades after the final exam in my last literature course, my heart quailed at the prospect of tackling an esteemed writing presented in the “critical edition” format.
I skipped the lengthy introduction to David Copperfield and went straight to the book itself. The first sentence reads: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” Of course, being a “critical edition,” there’s got to be a footnote in there somewhere. Sure enough, “hero” is footnoted. When, out of curiosity, I went back to the back of the book to read the footnote, it said this: “hero: Carlyle discussed the hero as “the man of letters” in On Heroes and Hero-Worship (1841). See Introduction.”
Really? I’m supposed to interrupt the flow of the book in the very first sentence to read that? Who gives a flying fig what “Carlyle” has to say? The footnote was almost a parody of academic overkill — which is really why so many of us hated “critical editions” in the first place.
So, with David Copperfield, I’m going to try to break through the “critical edition” barrier. Footnotes be damned! I’m going to read David Copperfield like those adoring Britons did, like any other book, without worrying about introductions or critical context or the comments of Carlyle. Who knows? Maybe underneath all of the academic posturing and overlays of intellectualism, there’s actually an interesting story in there somewhere.