Maybe you saw David Mamet's recent article "Charles Dickens Makes Me Want to Throw Up" in the Wall Street Journal. As you might expect, my first reaction to the article was anger. But, surprisingly, that didn't last.
Mamet is, of course, a renowned playwright. But when it comes to judging literature, he seems to have left all his writing skills in his other pants. His article is not a critique but a polemic; he throws grumpy invective at Dickens like a prankster throwing eggs at a house. He trots out the long-debunked "penny-a-liner" accusation (and doesn't even get that right, since the original accusation involved being paid per word); he uses words like "turgid" and "tortured" to describe Dickens's prose, on the basis of one short innocuous quote from Dombey and Son, arbitrarily compared with other short innocuous quotes from De Quincey and Butler. He offers grudging respect to A Tale of Two Cities and A Christmas Carol, but, he says, "to the rest, good riddance."
This is simply visceral loathing making a barely half-hearted attempt to pass itself off as literary criticism. As is often said, one man's meat is another man's poison, so we must allow Mamet his loathing, misguided as it is. But why he should feel that way about a body of work that has brought delight to nearly two centuries' worth of readers, and why he should feel the pressing need to proclaim such ill-natured feelings from the housetops instead of confessing them with humility, is anybody's guess. (I've never been able to feel very interested in Melville's work, for instance, but I don't count that as a virtue in myself.)
So anger is, in the end, not quite the right reaction. A reader who has feasted on Dickens must ultimately feel, for a man who can find almost nothing but poison in that magnificent spread, the most profound pity.
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