David Copperfield Charles Dickens (100 best novels of all time .TXT) 📖

David Copperfield

By Charles Dickens.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Preface to the 1850 Edition Preface to the Charles Dickens Edition Dedication David Copperfield I: I Am Born II: I Observe III: I Have a Change IV: I Fall Into Disgrace V: I Am Sent Away from Home VI: I Enlarge My Circle of Acquaintance VII: My “First Half” at Salem House VIII: My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon IX: I Have a Memorable Birthday X: I Become Neglected, and Am Provided For XI: I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like It XII: Liking Life on My Own Account No Better, I Form a Great Resolution XIII: The Sequel of My Resolution XIV: My Aunt Makes Up Her Mind About Me XV: I Make Another Beginning XVI: I Am a New Boy in More Senses Than One XVII: Somebody Turns Up XVIII: A Retrospect XIX: I Look About Me, and Make a Discovery XX: Steerforth’s Home XXI: Little Em’ly XXII: Some Old Scenes, and Some New People XXIII: I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession XXIV: My First Dissipation XXV: Good and Bad Angels XXVI: I Fall Into Captivity XXVII: Tommy Traddles XXVIII: Mr. Micawber’s Gauntlet XXIX: I Visit Steerforth at His Home, Again XXX: A Loss XXXI: A Greater Loss XXXII: The Beginning of a Long Journey XXXIII: Blissful XXXIV: My Aunt Astonishes Me XXXV: Depression XXXVI: Enthusiasm XXXVII: A Little Cold Water XXXVIII: A Dissolution of Partnership XXXIX: Wickfield and Heep XL: The Wanderer XLI: Dora’s Aunts XLII: Mischief XLIII: Another Retrospect XLIV: Our Housekeeping XLV: Mr. Dick Fulfils My Aunt’s Predictions XLVI: Intelligence XLVII: Martha XLVIII: Domestic XLIX: I Am Involved in Mystery L: Mr. Peggotty’s Dream Comes True LI: The Beginning of a Longer Journey LII: I Assist at an Explosion LIII: Another Retrospect LIV: Mr. Micawber’s Transactions LV: Tempest LVI: The New Wound, and the Old LVII: The Emigrants LVIII: Absence LIX: Return LX: Agnes LXI: I Am Shown Two Interesting Penitents LXII: A Light Shines on My Way LXIII: A Visitor LXIV: A Last Retrospect Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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Preface to the 1850 Edition

I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between pleasure and regret⁠—pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions⁠—that I am in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private emotions.

Besides which, all that I could say of the story, to any purpose, I have endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or how an author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from him forever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this narrative, in the reading, more than I have believed it in the writing.

Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot close this volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green leaves once a month, and with a faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy.

London, October, 1850.

Preface to the Charles Dickens Edition

I remarked in the original preface to this book, that I did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind was so divided between pleasure and regret⁠—pleasure in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many companions⁠—that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions.

Besides which, all that I could have said of the story to any purpose, I had endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or how an author feels as if