Dickens wrote (and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, which made some people despise him, because surely someone with that kind of output, who was earning money, could not possibly write well) journalism, non-fiction, angry letters, friendly letters (really very many letters), short fiction and long fiction.

He completely changed the way fiction was published, and he made a mark on the English language which you should really not scoff at (Ben Zimmer has a blog on the subject here). But central to the enduring appeal of the man are … well, the books.

I charge you, in this year of Dickensian splendour, to pick up one of these books, one you have not read before, and to sit down with it in a soft chair with a cup of tea at your elbow, and read it. You may read more than one (or, if you have already read them all, by all means re-read; or look up the facsimiles of the magazines he edited and wrote for here. But read one.

If you feel overwhelmed by the sheer mass of Dickensiana that will build up around you in the next ten months or so, by all means avoid places like The Guardian's dedicated Dickens page or the Dickens 2012 site. Retreat. To the chair and the tea and the book.

If you have not read Dickens, if you are perhaps avoiding him because you think you know what he is about, pick up a book. Victorian literature has an unfair reputation of being boring, overdone (and perhaps a slightly more fair reputation of occasional sentimentality). On the whole, Dickens is funny, colourful, political and delightful. And not, not ever, always the same.


Any plans for the day?