A Human Stew

Reading A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, I'm so enjoying his little frequent comic reliefs.  They're so tasteful, and so unusual and fresh that they unfailingly surprise me when they pop up.  Here are two of my favourites, (both from Part Two: A Golden Thread, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, published 1859.)  The first is referring to the dingy, traditional old bank of Tellson's, and the second, the crowds in the court after a disappointing treason trial. 

Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely.  When they took a young man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old.  They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him.  Then only was he permitted to be seen , spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment. 

and

From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day was straining off...

Where does he come up with such ideas?  I love these metaphors!  My almost complete inability to come up with a clever one makes these analogies such much more incredible.   

The Most Dangerous Leap-Frogger

His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head.  Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose.  It was so like smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best players of leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.

Book One, Chapter 3: The Night Shadows, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, published 1859.

I've always loved Charles Dickens' knack of giving comic relief, but this was a just wonderful.  It was a much needed chuckle.  I have a great respect for any writers who can write anything and still keep a spark of humour on the side.  It must take a lot of effort. 

What the Deuce is Dickens?

The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there.

and

He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have forgotten the way out again.

Stave One: Marley's Ghost, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, 1843.

These are two of the little wonderful Christmas delights Charles Dickens sewed throughout his story.  I listened to the audio book while I was going blind for the 40 Hour Famine, and when the narrator read these parts aloud, I just sat in silence warmly tingling with excitement. Charles Dickens is one of those marvelously underrated, quiet, witty men.  He has a great deal of things to point out, but though his wit is just as vibrant and glorious as other writers, it's many times more discreet, and sensitive, and vital and pulsating with the humanity of a wonderfully authentic person.  What he was like in real life, how the 'deuce' will we ever really know?  The glimpse of his being that peeps unabashedly out of his writing is as lovely a thing to get acquainted with. 

The Open Sesame Challenge

Hello my dears! Firstly, I would like to apologize for not commenting on any of your blogs recently. It’s entirely Blogger’s fault. It is failing to recognize me, and keeps redirecting me to the Google account login in an aggravating loop.


ME: Gmail, password, enter. Oo!

BLOGGER: Redirecting.

ME: OK then. Gmail, password, enter. Oo!

BLOGGER: Redirecting.

ME: Hmm. Gmail, password, enter.  Oo!

Etcetera etcetera. It just isn’t getting any less repetitive.

Now, today Themanycoloursofhappiness mentioned Charles Dickens in her comment and that got my mind in a complete buzz about him, even though every orifice in my face seems to be clogged with mucous.

I’ve read just two of his books, and they are Oliver Twist and Hard Times. I think that probably the main thing I adore about Charles Dickens is his characters. He has an intensely stimulating style of describing his creations in the perfect light with the perfect words that they stand out stark and strong and amazingly believable. And he has the tendency to stun you right out of the middle of his solemn narrative with a bubbling twinkle of humour. This little trick of his has often made me suddenly laugh aloud in a full classroom. I really respect him for having the goodness to do this.

Hard Times is a brilliant, little book that I would certainly recommend. It is very short in comparison to his other works, but it packs just the same punch. All in itself, without any context, without any pretext, the very first page builds a little scene out of thin air. It is just an exceptional little story all of itself, requiring nothing at all to make it work. I have often read the first page all by itself, and each time it succeeds in sending thrills into me.

This is the first page, and (how so unbelievably convienient), the first chapter too. Take a good, long, hearty swig of this!

'NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!'

The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders, - nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, - all helped the emphasis.

'In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!'

The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim.

Chapter 1, Hard Times by Charles Dickens (published 1854)

Isn’t it wonderful? For me, it is like in just these few paragraphs, the whole scene, the whole person, is etched out for me with a dark, scratchy pencil. It is such a brilliant little experience, don’t you think?

You know what? I think what would be great would be to have a challenge. How about, for the next couple of weeks, you share all your favourite opening lines, paragraphs, pages or chapters? I have a couple I can whip out, and you do too, I bet, because already, your mind is probably bursting with little snatches of beautifully strung words.  And I would like to call it the Open Sesame Challenge.