I started Great Expectations around the time I began working on my graduate thesis and after I had read Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Frankenstein. It was the first Dickens novel I ever read. I hoped the book would introduce me to the legendary English writer whose stories seemed so familiar but whose style was utterly unknown to me. Precisely because I had never read Dickens before – and also because I knew the premise of this bookless than the more iconic A Tale of Two Cities or Oliver Twist – I didn’t know exactly what to expect from Great Expectations. But I imagined it would be another thrilling, passionate read like those other romantic books I enjoyed so much.
Great Expectations, however, ended up being quite different than those other books. It was more subtle. Most of the time, the pages passed like a winding slow crawl up a carpeted staircase; you knew you were moving forward and upward, but there wasn’t anything particularly dramatic or sensational to mark your progress. Things happen in the novel, of course, and we see the protagonist, Pip, change and develop from a small boy to a young man through a series of curious incidents and encounters. But not until fairly late did I feel like I knew where the story was headed. In most other books of the period, certainly those mentioned above, the motivating principle of the story is fairly obvious right away. Even if you can’t predict all the turns in the road, you have a fair idea of where you are going. In Great Expectations, I was sure that there was some mystery afoot regarding Pip’s benefactor, and I was sure that Miss Havisham wasn’t it. But beyond that I was groping through the dark trying to imagine who or what it was all about.
Maybe I was distracted by my thesis, maybe I wasn’t reading very carefully. It is also true, I think, that this book is deliberately subdued in its delivery and progression. For example, most of the gut wrenching moments unfold over time or through seemingly simple and quiet exchanges. It hurts to see Pip abandon the good people of his past; to see his shame at their plain, well-intentioned ways. It hurts to see how money and status only stress and aggrieve his heart and soul, how much more he worries about debt and living standards and appearances after he comes into his fortune. It is frustrating to watch Pip trudge along, acting in small-minded and disappointing ways. And then there are all the characters that surround him, a menagerie of broken, vengeful hearts, petty manipulators, and cold calculations. Make no mistake, though, it is not all doldrums. There are plenty of moments to make you smile and sigh contented. I found the little scenes with the law clerk’s aged father particularly delightful:
“Only tip him a nod every now and then when he looks off his paper,” said Wemmick, “and he’ll be as happy as a king. We are all attention, Aged One.”
“All right John, all right!” returned the cheerful old man, so busy and so pleased, that it really was quite charming.
All of this, though, happens without much spectacle. The punches that hit hardest are usually delayed. This is quite different from the climatic peaks and depressing lows of books like Frankenstein or Wuthering Heights.
The writing is similarly mysterious and subdued. There are, of course, bold metaphors and similes scattered around. There are also some real ‘wow’ sentences, where Dickens proves his stylistic excellence. Two stood out:
Pause, you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.
But that, in shutting out the light of day, she had shut out infinitely more; that, in seclusion, she had secluded herself from a thousand natural and healing influences; that, her mind, brooding solitary, had grown diseased, as all minds do and must and will that reverse the appointed order of their Maker, I knew equally well.
These are just masterful constructions. But in general, the book hums along without too many of these grandiose phrases. People, events, and emotions always seem shrouded in just a hint of shadow. There is a sadness that clings to every word, and an honesty. One more quote to articulate what I mean:
A fire had been lately kindled in the damp old-fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than to burn up, and the reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed colder than the clearer air – like our own marsh mist.
In the end, the book didn’t hit me quite as hard as some others have. I found some of the main characters just a tick too annoying (reading about Estella’s haughty cunning was particularly aggravating). I found the story just a tick too over drawn. But nonetheless Great Expectations ensnared me. When I think back on it, I don’t have particularly strong reactions or impressions, but little pieces of it really stick out, like rays of sunlight passing through a shutter, illuminating splinters of floating dust. I suspect the book will have the same effect on most readers, although the bits of sunlight will inevitably change. In any case, glancing over notes and highlighted passages from the text leaves me wide-eyed and nostalgic, possessed by the notion that this novel is a masterpiece.
I think the book has depths I couldn’t quite reach on my first read. There are multitudes at work here, and secrets, layered and folded away somewhere within the paper labyrinth. There is also wisdom, and more advice than in any other of my favorite 19th century classics. Dickens seems eager to communicate picked up insights about human nature; stories and lessons from disparate conversations and memories. The book that results is distinctly conversational. At times, I’m even convinced that Dickens let slip the reins of his story to speak frankly from personal experience. I can’t be sure about this, but it is pleasant to muse about where Pip’s voice ends and Dickens’ begins.
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