Last night I celebrated Dickens’
200th birthday with the Central Regions Arts Club in Birmingham, an
organisation stemming from the Open University, of which I am a member. CRAC
organises events throughout the year and the Dickens celebration was an eye
opener for me – someone who has watched adaptations, read a meagre handful of
his works and didn’t really know anything about his life.
The small but friendly group in
the CRAC gathered on a cold winter night to mark tribute to a man whose legacy
lives on long after him, and more unusually became a legacy while he still
lived. There were readings from peoples’ favourite stories and audio clips from
the new OU collection available from itunes – just search for Dickens.
The main theme of the evening was
a study of Dickens’ portrayal of children in his works and indeed a reading
from Pickwick Papers drew an extremely close parallel with the rare extract of
his own writing about his childhood that was eventually published by way of his
executor. It was strange to hear Dickens speak of himself in almost the same
voice as he did of his characters. Most memorable was the exploration we made
of his description of the children in A Christmas Carol with the Ghost of
Christmas Future: ignorance and want as a reflection of Scrooge’s attitude and
the wrongs of humanity.
We probably remember Dickens most
for his fantastic portrayal of characters, his lingering descriptive passages
and vast array of novels. We likely also consider him greatly for his
reflections on society and his seeming desires to illustrate the shortfalls of
the world around him. But do we remember him for the man he was? Enough detail
of his life exists to know him as a man who was enthusiastic and relentless
about his work. He had ten children but is notoriously known for then leaving
his wife, near abandoning the children and absconding with a young actress.
Or do we remember him as the
actor, the public speaker, who during the latter years of his career made an
enormous success and vast fortune by carrying out rather extravagant public
readings to audiences that we would be proud of today. He even toured America
twice and in his own lifetime was exceptionally popular despite his behaviour
in his private life and his obvious disparagement of so many elements of
society.
Last night, however, we
remembered him with words and memories and birthday cake, as a man that poured
the essence of who he was into his art so passionately, furiously and with such
vigour, that he burned himself out on his enthusiasm and dedication to
performance, to die an old man before his time when he was just 58. Even now
his words are poignant and he must be hailed as one of the lasting greats.
Elloise Hopkins.
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