David Copperfield (Inti Classics): by Charles Dickens, by Charles Dickens
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David Copperfield (Inti Classics): by Charles Dickens, by Charles Dickens
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David Copperfield is the eighth novel by Charles Dickens. The story follows the life of David Copperfield from childhood to maturity. David was born in Blunderstone, Suffolk, near Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, England, in 1820, six months after the death of his father. David spends his early years in relative happiness with his loving but frail mother and their kindly housekeeper, Peggotty. When he is seven years old his mother marries Edward Murdstone. During the marriage, partly to get him out of the way and partly because he strongly objects to the whole proceeding, David is sent to lodge with Pegotty’s family, in Yarmouth. Her brother, the fisherman Pegotty, lives in a houseboat with his adopted relatives Em’ly and Ham, and an elderly widow, Mrs Gummidge. Little Em’ly is somewhat spoilt by her fond foster father, and David is in love with her. On his return, David is given good reason to dislike his stepfather and has similar feelings for Murdstone's sister Jane, who moves into the house soon afterwards. Between them they tyrannise over his poor mother, making her and David’s’ lives miserable, and when in consequence David falls behind in his studies, Murdstone attempts to thrash him – partly to further pain his mother. David bites him and soon afterwards is sent away to a boarding school, Salem House, under a ruthless headmaster, Mr. Creakle. There he befriends an older boy, James Steerforth, and Tommy Traddles. He develops an impassioned admiration for Steerforth, perceiving him as something noble, who could do great things if he would. Particularity of this edition: - Complete work: all 64 chapters - Table of contents - Annotations from Wikipedia Inti Editions thank you very much for choosing our books!
David Copperfield (Inti Classics): by Charles Dickens, by Charles Dickens - Amazon Sales Rank: #243873 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-11-11
- Released on: 2015-11-11
- Format: Kindle eBook
David Copperfield (Inti Classics): by Charles Dickens, by Charles Dickens Review "The most perfect of all the Dickens novels."--Virginia Woolf
About the Author Charles Dickens was born in 1812. When he was twelve, his father was sent to a debtor's prison and he was sent to work; the experiences from this time always haunted him. After a brief career as a reporter Dickens began writing novels. Published in serial form, his work grew rapidly in popularity, beginning with The Pickwick Papers. Today, Charles Dickens is one of the most recognized celebrities of English literature. His many books include Oliver Twist, Great Expectations and A Christmas Carol.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night.I need say nothing here on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether seagoing people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss—for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then—and ten years afterwards the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half a crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short—as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowl-edge of the strength of her objection, 'Let us have no meandering.'Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth.I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or 'thereby,' as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it. There is something strange to me, even now, in the reflection that he never saw me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my first childish associations with his white gravestone in the churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our house were—almost cruelly, it seemed to me sometimes—bolted and locked against it.An aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by-and-by, was the principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in the sense of the homely adage, 'handsome is, that handsome does'—for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs' window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India with his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but I think it must have been a Baboo—or a Begum. Anyhow, from India tidings of his death reached home, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody knew; for immediately upon the separation she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way off, established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and was understood to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement.My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground that my mother was 'a wax doll.' She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my mother's age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months before I came into the world.This was the state of matters on the afternoon of, what I may be excused for calling, that eventful and important Friday. I can make no claim, therefore, to have known, at that time, how matters stood; or to have any remembrance, founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden.My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady, over the garden fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of countenance that could have belonged to nobody else.When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent that my poor dear mother used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment.She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday.My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like a Saracen's head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went.'Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,' said Miss Betsey; the emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother's mourning weeds, and her condition.'Yes,' said my mother, faintly.'Miss Trotwood,' said the visitor. 'You have heard of her, I dare say?'My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure.'Now you see her,' said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head, and begged her to walk in.They went into the parlour my mother had come from, the fire in the best room on the other side of the passage not being lighted—not having been lighted, indeed, since my father's funeral; and when they were both seated, and Miss Betsey said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself, began to cry.'Oh, tut, tut, tut!' said Miss Betsey, in a hurry. 'Don't do that! Come, come!'My mother couldn't help it notwithstanding, so she cried until she had had her cry out.'Take off your cap, child,' said Miss Betsey, 'and let me see you.'My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face.'Why, bless my heart!' exclaimed Miss Betsey. 'You are a very baby!'My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance even for her years; she hung her head, as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow, and would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no ungentle hand; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire.'In the name of Heaven,' said Miss Betsey, suddenly, 'why Rookery?''Do you mean the house, ma'm?' asked my mother.'Why Rookery?' said Miss Betsey. 'Cookery would have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you.''The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice,' returned my mother. 'When he bought the house, he liked to think that there were rooks about it.'The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among some tall old elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind, some weatherbeaten ragged old rooks'-nests burdening their higher branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.
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353 of 360 people found the following review helpful. Why it still matters By E. Kutinsky Somehow, I'd graduated from college - with a degree in English, no less - and had never had to read a single thing ever written by Charles Dickens. I read quite a bit on my own, but still found David Copperfield to be the height of ambition - my copy was 1001 pages long, and I hadn't ventured into a book over a thousand pages since I'd read The Stand at age 12. I cannot imagine that I am alone in completing my education and sidestepping Dickens altogether, so I think it's important I share my experience. In truth, the only reason I chose David Copperfield over, say, Great Expectations or Hard Times was the passing comment made by Jeff Daniels in The Squid And The Whale - dismissing a Tale of Two Cities as "minor Dickens," saying David Copperfield was "much richer."It is rich. I tend towards modern fiction nowadays, fiction that, unexpectedly, takes you deep inside the heart of its characters sometimes bewildering behavior and humanity. What strikes me about the complex nature of the characters in Copperfield is the way it seems that no effort at all has been used to distinguish each of them, yet there is no doubt as to how vivid they are. Each character speaks in a tone that is a perfect elucidation of who they are - you can hear, just in the dialogue, the calm wisdom of Agnes, the parasitic obsequiousness of Uriah Heep, the punctilious rambling of Micawber, the pleasantries that barely mask the aggression of Miss Dartle, the rigid boredom of the Murdstones, the spoiled impishness when Dora speaks (so precise I heard her voice in cloying and nasal babytalk in my head). It's a delicate balancing act to keep this level of detail so hidden in his work, and it makes the plot machinations speedy and exciting. The varied heights in this book astound - moments of drama, whimsy, intrigue, romance abound, and the book is even prone to its bit of slapstick - midgets falling over into umbrellas, or extreme umbrage taken when donkeys appear on lawns.What I mean is that it's easy to know you "should" read David Copperfield, but as anyone who's ever had a reading assignment knows, that doesn't necessarily make it something you'd want to do. I know, in a way, that David Copperfield is considered a standard - a book Tolstoy and Virginia Woolf, for example, hold as the pinnacle of English fiction - but then again, I slogged my way through supposed classics in school that, over time, have turned out to appear dull and unsurprising. David Copperfield is so underread these days that I had no idea what to expect, no notion of the amazing surprises within, the sublimely addictive cadence of Dickens' prose, the dazzle of his language. Reading it for no particular reason, then, was a triumph all around - a book that doesn't require a degree to "understand," that moves breezily through its pages, and that teaches a thing or two (or twenty) about the rich heights capable in fiction. It's as rich and winning as you've heard and then some.
119 of 123 people found the following review helpful. The Consummate Dickens By Jennifer B. Barton David Copperfield uses the story of Copperfield's life from birth through middle life to introduce and explore some wonderful personalities. Look more for deep and penetrating character studies than a fast moving plot line. It is not character study alone, however. Again and again, through many characters and many instances, he seems to really explore "the first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart", and that "there can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose". Look for these themes to come in from the very beginning and continue until they are actually spelled out by one character and contemplated by another.When David is born, his father is already buried in the churchyard nearby. He, his mother, and their servant Pegotty live happily enough as a family until his mother remarries. The new husband does not like frivolity or friendly association with servants but more than that, he does not like David. David is sent off to boarding school and then sent out to work. Barred from his mother's affections by his stepfather, Pegotty becomes a full mother figure and his ties to her and her family only deepen with time. Through her, he meets her brother, Mr. Pegotty; her nephew?, Ham, the widow Mrs. Gummidge and Mr. Pegotty's niece, Emily. At school, he makes fast friends with many boys but most especially with the privileged James Steerforth and the not so privileged Tommy Traddles, both of whom show up again in David's adulthood. In the bottling warehouse where he is sent to work as a child, he lodges with Mr. And Mrs. Micawber who are always in debt. They also show up again in his adulthood. When the station of life that he is being forced into at his tender age becomes too much for him, he escapes to seek out his eccentric great aunt Betsey Trotwood who takes him in and provides for him. Through her, he meets her lawyer, Mr. Wickfield, his daughter Agnes, Dr. Strong and his youthful bride, Annie and we mustn't forget Uriah Heep. He marries, works hard and becomes successful. These are the majority of the characters and it encompasses more than half of the novel to get to this point. (In my copy, that was just over four hundred and forty pages).The only slow part is after David finishes school and before he meets his wife. That part did seem to move slowly but, apart from that, the story moves very, very well and -after all the characters are set up and well developed - it takes off like a rocket and is difficult to put down without worrying about the various characters predicaments and wondering how he is going to pull all of these strings together. This IS Dickens after all. I won't spoil the meat of the plot line for you. Again, look for those themes - "the first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart", and "there can be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose".David Copperfield is, if such things are possible, like a "Best Of" Dickens. It is one very substantial novel and stands alone as an exquisite masterpiece. Yet so many characters from his other novels seem to return here to be rounded out and more deeply developed. David Copperfield (himself) reminds me of Pip of Great Expectations, Betsey Trotwood of Miss Havisham, Mr. Micawber of Magwitch, and Agnes of Biddy. Mr. Murdstone seems to be of the Gradgrind line from Hard Times. One character reminded me not of another character in Dicken's work but of the vile character from Les Miserables (Victor Hugo) who repeatedly attempted to extort or do harm to Jean Valjean and Marius. It would be fun to have read all of Dicken's work before reading David Copperfield just to see Dicken's feelings of the various character types and what time has done to them in his mind. Of course, like any "Best Of", you could read only this one work and have a deep and abiding appreciation of Dickens without having read any of his others.
57 of 60 people found the following review helpful. The theme of David Copperfield By Stephen Balbach This is a first-person life-story of David Copperfield ("DC") that draws large on Dickens ("CD") own life. It was his "favorite child" and hailed as his best work by Tolstoy and Virginia Woolf. It includes a cast of over 50 characters. For its time it was one of the greatest works, and still is.To enjoy Dickens you have to let go, sit back, and enjoy the ride and not worry about the destination. Because although you can see the destination early on, like a mountain far off in the distance, the road to get there is entirely unpredictable and the distances traveled are deceiving to the minds eye. The trick is to enjoy the here and now, wherever the story happens to be, because Dickens will never follow the predictable path, and can leave one exasperated waiting for a plot closure. Consider a Dickens journey never-ending and you can just relax and enjoy the ride.The primary theme of the novel is how Copperfield learns to have a disciplined heart and morals. In other words, he grows up and becomes a man. This is seen throughout all the relationships in the book: love, business, friendship -- the mistakes of an "undisciplined heart". He learns self control to do the right thing even if his initial impulse is something else (Dora versus Agnus). He learns confidence in his dealings with the world (his innocent days of being ripped off all the time such as by waiters and cab drivers "my first fall"). He learns respect through the mistakes of others such as Steerforth. Self control, Confidence and Respect are all hallmarks of a grown man and we see Copperfield develop a sense of these, and the misfortunes that happen otherwise, to himself and those around him.
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