ISBN-10:
0393958280
ISBN-13:
9780393958287
Pub. Date:
11/28/1989
Publisher:
Norton, W. W. & Company, Inc.
David Copperfield: A Norton Critical Edition / Edition 1

David Copperfield: A Norton Critical Edition / Edition 1

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Overview

David Copperfield: A Norton Critical Edition / Edition 1

This Norton Critical Edition reprints the original 1850 text of Dickens’ most autobiographical novel, and his own personal favorite, including all of the line drawings by Phiz.
The editor has made necessary typographical corrections and carefully introduced and annotated the text for the student reader.
Dickens’ number plans for David Copperfield, which reveal his practice both as a serial writer and as a craftsman, are also included.
"Backgrounds" focuses on Dickens’ personal involvement with and response to the novel’s publication. Included are passages from his letters relating to David Copperfield, an autobiographical fragment, his preface to the 1869 edition of the novel, and a relevant excerpt from Little Dorrit.
"Criticism" is comprised of twelve essays by distinguished Dickensians representing a wide range of judgment and analysis. John Forster, Matthew Arnold, E. K. Brown, Gwendolyn B. Needham, Monroe Engel, J. Hillis Miller, Mark Spilka, Harry Stone, Bert G. Hornback, Garrett Stewart, Robert L. Patten, and Alexander Walsh provide a variety of perspectives.
A Chronology of Dickens’ Life and Works and a Selected Bibliography are also included.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780393958287
Publisher: Norton, W. W. & Company, Inc.
Publication date: 11/28/1989
Series: Norton Critical Editions Series
Edition description: New Edition
Pages: 864
Sales rank: 466,426
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

Charles Dickens (1812-1870) is one of the most acclaimed and popular writers of all time. His many works include the classics The Old Curiosity Shop, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Barnaby Rudge, A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, David Copperfield, Great Expectations, Bleak House, Hard Times, Our Mutual Friend, The Pickwick Papers and many more.

Jerome H. Buckley is Gurney Professor Emeritus of English Literature at Harvard University, where he began teaching in 1961. He is a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and is the author of many books, among them The Victorian Temper, Tennyson: The Growth of a Poet, The Triumph of Time, and The Turning Key: Autobiography and the Subjective Impulse. He is the editor of the Riverside Edition of The Poems of Tennyson and Harvard’s The Worlds of Victorian Fiction, among other texts.

Date of Birth:

February 7, 1812

Date of Death:

June 18, 1870

Place of Birth:

Portsmouth, England

Place of Death:

Gad's Hill, Kent, England

Education:

Home-schooling; attended Dame School at Chatham briefly and Wellington

Read an Excerpt

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 attorneyconnected 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.

Table of Contents

I
I.I am born1
II.I observe12
III.I have a Change26
II
IV.I fall into Disgrace41
V.I am sent away from Home60
VI.I enlarge my Circle of Acquaintance77
III
VII.My "first half" at Salem House84
VIII.My Holidays. Especially one happy Afternoon102
IX.I have a memorable Birthday116
IV
X.I become neglected, and am provided for128
XI.I begin Life on my own Account, and don't like it149
XII.Liking Life on my own Account no better, I form a great Resolution164
V
XIII.The Sequel of my Resolution174
XIV.My Aunt makes up her Mind about me195
XV.I make another Beginning210
VI
XVI.I am a New Boy in more senses than one219
XVII.Somebody turns up240
XVIII.A Retrospect259
VII
XIX.I look about me, and make a Discovery266
XX.Steerforth's Home282
XXI.Little Em'ly290
VIII
XXII.Some old Scenes, and some new People309
XXIII.I corroborate Mr. Dick, and choose a Profession333
XXIV.My first Dissipation347
IX
XXV.Good and bad Angels355
XXVI.I fall into Captivity374
XXVII.Tommy Traddles389
X
XXVIII.Mr. Micawber's Gauntlet399
XXIX.I visit Steerforth at his Home, again417
XXX.A Loss425
XXXI.A greater Loss434
XI
XXXII.The Beginning of a long Journey443
XXXIII.Blissful461
XXXIV.My Aunt astonishes me477
XII
XXXV.Depression485
XXXVI.Enthusiasm505
XXXVII.A little Cold Water521
XIII
XXXVIII.A Dissolution of Partnership529
XXXIX.Wickfield and Heep545
XL.The Wanderer564
XIV
XLI.Dora's Aunts574
XLII.Mischief590
XLIII.Another Retrospect609
XV
XLIV.Our Housekeeping617
XLV.Mr. Dick fulfils my Aunt's Prediction632
XLVI.Intelligence647
XVI
XLVII.Martha660
XLVIII.Domestic671
XLIX.I am involved in Mystery681
L.Mr. Peggotty's Dream comes true694
XVII
LI.The Beginning of a longer Journey705
LII.I assist at an Explosion722
LIII.Another Retrospect745
XVIII
LIV.Mr. Micawber's Transactions750
LV.Tempest765
LVI.The new Wound, and the old776
LVII.The Emigrants782
XIX-XX
LVIII.Absence792
LIX.Return798
LX.Agnes814
LXI.I am shown two interesting Penitents823
LXII.A Light shines on my way836
LXIII.A Visitor844
LXIV.A last Retrospect852

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David Copperfield: A Norton Critical Edition 4.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Stbalbach on LibraryThing 2 days ago
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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