continued from part 5
One of my favourite parts of the whole trip was the visit to the Charles Dickens Museum at Russell Square.
Many years ago, I entered "visit the Charles Dickens Musuem" as #80 on my Wish List.
I honestly never thought I would ever get to tick it, unless I became a rich and famous writer some day, and could afford to travel for such luxuries in my old age. In my mind that lay somewhere along the same possibility level as "swim with dolphins" (#47.)
So it felt very unreal when I stood in front of that small turquoise green door in a row of conjoined houses, so modest and quiet in appearance that only the sign on its door showed we had come to the right place. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I suppose the word 'museum' conjures up ideas of big buildings with guides and plaques and statues. Actually, the personal, intimate, almost ordinary feel of the place at once surprised and delighted me. After all, Dickens was such a huge name in literature. Perhaps more honestly speaking, he was such a big name to me. I grew up on an abundance of 19th century literature, which is why I have a diehard weakness for the Victorians, and a (yes, snobby) prejudice against modern literature and contemporary writers. Which my BA program is helping me to overcome, as I knew it would.
Something drew me to Dickens. Call it what you will--fate, destiny, yes Flynn Rider, a horse--I found myself devouring the whole set, which my father bought from a thrift shop at the stupendously cheap price of $2 per book. Nicholas Nickleby, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist...even the more obscure ones like Barnaby Rudge, Little Dorrit, Dombey and Son, and my own personal favourite, the detective mystery Our Mutual Friend. I think I have Dickens to thank for training me to endure long novels with multiple plot lines and characters. I galloped through each one, then reread it, each time focusing on the set of characters I liked more (in descending order.) And then researched on the various BBC adaptations of each novel. Fussing about the lack of adaptations, or Charlie Hunnam's blonde hair, which for me spoilt even Jamie Bell's performance in Nicholas Nickleby. And went on cyclical rereads, constantly reminding myself that no, I wouldn't like to live in the Victorian Age (really though?), their clothes must be terribly uncomfortable (but pretty) and women didn't have much rights or opportunities...oh well. It's not like I have the choice anyway.
Since then I've discovered that Dickens is no longer considered popular reading, and he's long-winded, overly sentimental, and somewhat melodramatic. To be fair all my modern sensibilities revolted over the exasperating meekness and mildness of Agnes, whom I unappreciatively called a cow in my own review of David Copperfield; and Little Nell's infamous death scene--enough said. It took me years to approach and get through Bleak House as well, seasoned Dickens reader though I was; I left it for the last until I had read even Edwin Drood and was absolutely desperate. Having said all that, let me take up my Dickens banner again. He is one of what I call my comfort-authors, the authors whose writings are the ones I go to for fun reading, to relax and remind myself why I wanted to study literature, why I wanted to be a writer in the first place.
So I shall still be digging out Our Mutual Friend for a reread, as I study the most brilliant works of postmodern writers.
And Charles Dickens will always be important to me. After all--call it fate, call it destiny--we share the same birthday.
One of my favourite parts of the whole trip was the visit to the Charles Dickens Museum at Russell Square.
Many years ago, I entered "visit the Charles Dickens Musuem" as #80 on my Wish List.
I honestly never thought I would ever get to tick it, unless I became a rich and famous writer some day, and could afford to travel for such luxuries in my old age. In my mind that lay somewhere along the same possibility level as "swim with dolphins" (#47.)
So it felt very unreal when I stood in front of that small turquoise green door in a row of conjoined houses, so modest and quiet in appearance that only the sign on its door showed we had come to the right place. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I suppose the word 'museum' conjures up ideas of big buildings with guides and plaques and statues. Actually, the personal, intimate, almost ordinary feel of the place at once surprised and delighted me. After all, Dickens was such a huge name in literature. Perhaps more honestly speaking, he was such a big name to me. I grew up on an abundance of 19th century literature, which is why I have a diehard weakness for the Victorians, and a (yes, snobby) prejudice against modern literature and contemporary writers. Which my BA program is helping me to overcome, as I knew it would.
Something drew me to Dickens. Call it what you will--fate, destiny, yes Flynn Rider, a horse--I found myself devouring the whole set, which my father bought from a thrift shop at the stupendously cheap price of $2 per book. Nicholas Nickleby, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist...even the more obscure ones like Barnaby Rudge, Little Dorrit, Dombey and Son, and my own personal favourite, the detective mystery Our Mutual Friend. I think I have Dickens to thank for training me to endure long novels with multiple plot lines and characters. I galloped through each one, then reread it, each time focusing on the set of characters I liked more (in descending order.) And then researched on the various BBC adaptations of each novel. Fussing about the lack of adaptations, or Charlie Hunnam's blonde hair, which for me spoilt even Jamie Bell's performance in Nicholas Nickleby. And went on cyclical rereads, constantly reminding myself that no, I wouldn't like to live in the Victorian Age (really though?), their clothes must be terribly uncomfortable (but pretty) and women didn't have much rights or opportunities...oh well. It's not like I have the choice anyway.
Since then I've discovered that Dickens is no longer considered popular reading, and he's long-winded, overly sentimental, and somewhat melodramatic. To be fair all my modern sensibilities revolted over the exasperating meekness and mildness of Agnes, whom I unappreciatively called a cow in my own review of David Copperfield; and Little Nell's infamous death scene--enough said. It took me years to approach and get through Bleak House as well, seasoned Dickens reader though I was; I left it for the last until I had read even Edwin Drood and was absolutely desperate. Having said all that, let me take up my Dickens banner again. He is one of what I call my comfort-authors, the authors whose writings are the ones I go to for fun reading, to relax and remind myself why I wanted to study literature, why I wanted to be a writer in the first place.
So I shall still be digging out Our Mutual Friend for a reread, as I study the most brilliant works of postmodern writers.
And Charles Dickens will always be important to me. After all--call it fate, call it destiny--we share the same birthday.
This lengthy backstory is important so you'll understand why the rest of this post is written in whispers of hushed awe.
Inside, it was a complex, twisty little house with rooms on different levels and multiple creaky wooden stairs. I totally understand how you could have mystery and intrigue going on in a house which is so small, if it had so many different corners and levels. Something you don't quite get with the straightforward layout of the standard HDB flat!
It was all breathlessly Victorian--morning room; attic; kitchen; pantry; even the wine cellar outside. Some of the furniture had actually been used by Dickens and his family. That included the suit he met Queen Victoria in. The table he designed for his immensely popular public readings. His wife's engagement ring, and even...wait for it...the very desk and chair he'd worked at. (see, didn't I tell you there'd be whispers of hushed awe which sound ridiculous to anyone not in love with Dickens?) The chair especially had actually been drawn in an illustration for Edwin Drood, with Rosa Bud sitting on it.
Talk about thrills. I think I was literally tip toeing around that chair.
Suddenly, after having read so much of what he'd written, I saw him as a real person. Someone probably much like me in personality (I like to think.) The awe of many years evaporated (somewhat) and was replaced with a warm, quiet sort of understanding, like an unspoken thought shared with a close friend. Slightly wistful, as if I had known his faults and weaknesses personally, seen his strengths. It was a quietly satisfying visit without the glamour and illusions which were so integral to say, my experience of Windsor Castle.
I think of the part in The Fault in Our Stars (not my favourite book, I'm afraid, but nevertheless definitely memorable) which I most related to--where Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters go on a madcap trip to visit the idolized author of An Imperial Affliction. And get majorly disillusioned. I've often thought about this, as a writer and a reader (and only recently found out in class that it kind of comes under a legit concept by Genette; the projected reader/author.) Without realizing it, we readers assume that the work was a reflection of the wonderfulness that the writer himself would embody, that the writer would be even more wonderful than the book, since he was its creator--right? When in fact all too often the reverse is true--the work embodies the best of its writer, separating the grains of gold from the faults and ignominy; stripping away the corporeal--in order to perfect the delicate ratio which gives the golden grains the impact they have.
I had a lovely chat with the volunteer there, an elderly lady who was a kindred spirit and knew a lot about Dickens. It's amazing how books can become the connection for people so different in age, background, nationality, you name it; in common love for a book (or common hate!) Hers were a faded blue, mine were the almost-black brown of most Asians, but that moment our eyes had the same sparkle.
One funny thing about our visit was that I was the youngest visitor in the whole house. And my mom, (who still hasn't finished Our Mutual Friend from when I tried to make her read years ago, but was still splendidly gracious and interested as she accompanied me) was the second youngest. There was a fair crowd of elderly Britishers tottering about elegantly and discussing Dickens in very genteel soft voices--"What book was this graveyard scene from?" "Great Expectations, my dear." "Oh yes, I remember now--with Pip and--and Mag--Mag something, I've quite forgotten..."
So apparently the Dickens enthusiasts are an aging population.
to be continued in part 7