NO proper adjective derived from an author’s name— Wodehousian, Shavian, Wildean—is deployed with quite such frequency as Dickensian. We refer to Dickensian conditions (austere and squalid), Dickensian systems (archaic) and even Dickensian fog (a dreary pea-souper hanging damply in the air). We speak of people being Dickensian in character, which might be, by turns, absurd, humorous or tragic, but, above all, memorable. If asked to name 10 characters from Trollope or Scott, many of us would struggle. Dickens is another matter.
The names themselves are an art form: Susan Nipper, The Artful Dodger, Wackford Squeers, M’Choakumchild, Mrs Sowerberry, Anne Chickenstalker, Mr Guppy, Nicodemus ‘Noddy’ Boffin—each instantly conjuring an image. Uriah Heep (‘the ’umblest person going’) is the epitome of oily evil; the Veneerings are all front and social climbing; Allan Woodcourt, upstanding and a quiet pillar of strength.
There’s pompous Mr Bumble, the weak, oafish Noah Claypole and everyone knows what Scrooge is. And then there are the minor characters whose appearances are few, but whose names and characteristics are so striking: Mr Grimwig, Mr Creakle or Mr Pumblechook; Mrs Pardiggle, Polly Toodle or Flora Finching—they could all be major players in another story. Some say that Dickens over-egged the pudding, but his characters are not far-fetched—all of us know someone who is larger than life.
Reviewing Jeanette Winterson’s autobiography Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?, Daisy Goodwin wrote: ‘Physically huge and 20 stone, and often wearing an electric corset that beeped when it overheated, Mrs Winterson, with her “revolver hidden in the duster drawer, and the bullets in a tin of Pledge” ready for the Armageddon, was a character that even Dickens might have thought a little over the top.’
Denne historien er fra June 03, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra June 03, 2020-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
