No fan of Dickens should scribble the following drivel in her journal: “I read Bleak House because others don’t” (2012). It isn’t even true. I was doodling. Tens of thousands are reading Bleak House as we speak (probably). Maybe tens of millions.
But people on the internet are often flummoxed by Dickens. They speed through the succinct Tale of Two Cities but are defeated by the bulk of Bleak House. In an online forum somebody wrote: “In doing a little research I ran across an article arguing that if Dickens were alive today he’d probably be writing soap operas, and I completely agree.”
This is a person who reads for plot not for language. But as I scrawled in my journal I became as inky and indignant as one of my favorite characters in Bleak House, Caddy Jellyby, who miserably pens long letters dictated by her philanthropist mother about fund-raising for a project in Borrioboola-Gha in Africa. Mrs. Jellyby neglects her family.
September 26, 2018
I am reading quietly, interrupted only by the cats, and it does seem the best book I’ve read in ages. For a few hours a day I am free from worry about politics, leaky roofs, tornado warnings, and renewing library cards and state IDs.
I love Dickens’ masterly use of English. Where did he learn the rhetorical language? His use of anaphora is flamboyant–acrobatics in a circus of repetition. Here is one of the most famous passages.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
The action pivots around a court case about a will. In the nightmare world of Chancery, Jarndyce v Jarndyce drags on for decades, and the litigators kill themselves or go mad. But the charming, well-educated orphan Esther Summerson shines a light on her circle. Esther, whose lovely first-person narrative (“Esther’s Narrative”) is at the heart of the novel, is a kind of Cinderella character (not princessy, though). Raised by a godmother who devastates her by saying she would have been better off unborn, Esther does not know her parentage. Yet Esther, whose education is paid for by her guardian John Jarndyce, is the most filial, loving character of all. First she becomes an adored teacher; then she is invited to Bleak House by John Jarndyce to live with two other orphans, wards of court, pretty Ada and witty Richard. Richard, alas, believes Jarndyce and Jarndyce will make him rich.
There is redemption among many of the orphans. Interestingly, nuclear families are less nurturing than makeshift families. (Are we talking about the 1960s?) Orphans, bachelors, spinsters, elderly eccentrics, the mad, the poor, the single, and the rootless come together. The nuclear families are damaging, among them the Jellybys, the Pardiggles, and the Skimpoles.
Esther is connected to everyone, I think. But I won’t give away her lineage.