Far From Brooklyn

Rereading “David Copperfield” for at least the third time (and probably the fourth or fifth, I don’t remember) I found myself wondering if it is not the greatest novel of all time. What could be better?

On this re-reading, what struck me most was how fresh and modern the novel feels today. It anticipates autofiction (or, as I like to refer to autofiction, “the new anti-novel”) even as it sets five or more plot-tops spinning at once. It experiments with form (for instance, the frantic detailing of David’s one-after-another infatuations). And it deals frankly with mental illness. Thoroughly modern.

My first read of “Copperfield” was in 9th grade. I remember the year only because my school was all boys through grade 8, with girls joining the class in grade 9. And one of those girls (I think her name was Nina), wrote an analysis of the novel that, to my mind at the time, was so penetrating and clever, I recognized immediately that I could never be an English student of her caliber. Among other things, Nina observed that the name “Copperfield” could suggest that the character, while admirable, was not perhaps “as good as gold” (copper, you see?) but that nevertheless he might be a “champ,” because the world “field” is “champ” in French. I was flabbergasted by these and a dozen other observations in her paper, which immediately made me ashamed of my own pathetic analysis. Reading her paper was quite similar to the feeling I got that very same year when I played a nationally ranked player in tennis (I won’t name names but trust me, you would know him), at which point I realized that I would never, ever be a great tennis player or indeed a great athlete of any sort.

It’s difficult to come face to face with your own limitations, and I definitely did that in 9th grade. I think the experience probably had a deeper effect than I might have realized at the time. I did not pay close attention in school after that. I was highly distractable (like a lot of high school boys) but also felt certain that my work wasn’t likely to be of the quality that I would want it to be, so I capped my effort. What was the point in trying if I couldn’t be the very best? This was my general philosophy at the time, and, honestly, it’s still something of a belief of mine to this day, detrimental though it may be to happiness and even achievement.

And to think I owe much of that crippling attitude to ninth grade “Nina,” if that in fact was her name, and her David Copperfield essay!

Another thing I remember about reading Copperfield that first time was the teacher’s focus on the concept of flat vs. round characters, an academic cliche to be sure but one that stuck with me through high school and college. Now, I can only ask: Whaaat??? Copperfield is, supposedly, chock-a-block with flat characters, but my latest reading left me scratching my head at that concept. Uriah Heep, flat? Aunt Betsy? Steerforth? Mr. Dick? (Most of all, Mr. Dick!) Even the over-the-top characters like the Micawbers and the Murdstones have beveled edges.

About that ninth grade teacher: I seem to remember that he was a short-tempered man–and ironically enough, he was also the school minister, and wore a white collar in the classroom. He flung erasers at students who were daydreaming. A little puff of chalk-smoke would pop over their heads or chests if his aim was true.

(A side memory of this same teacher: a Black classmate mispronounced the word “asked” one day, and the teacher cruelly required him to say it, over and over, until he could get it right. A nervous titter rippled through the room as the boy said “axed” again and again. I really hope I wasn’t one of the boys laughing that day, but I bet I was–I bet all of us were laughing, or at least the white kids–and I’m sorry for that. The teacher was a bully and it was easier to play it safe and laugh along with him.)

Nevertheless, I also remember that same teacher being one of the very few people in all my life who ever complimented my fiction writing. One day in class he read aloud the entirety of a short story I had written, an experience that helped me settle on the ambition to become a writer. I’m not sure I’ve ever had quite as much pride in a piece of writing as I did that morning, hearing my words read aloud by an adult. It had an enormous impact on me.

And another thing: That same teacher (could it possibly be the same man in all these memories???) taught music to the younger boys, and one day we were singing in the school chapel when he suddenly halted us: “Hold on! I need to hear something. Someone’s got a good voice. Someone here has an exceptional voice.” Standing in the center aisle of the chapel, he had us begin again, so he could range up and down, listening to us individually. I desperately wanted the good singer to be me. So we sang and he paced up and down amongst us, leaning over us in turn and saying, “No… no… no… no… Well, it’s no use.” Apparently, whatever he had heard was an aberration. There were no exceptional voices to be found, mine among them.

Hoo! This is what David Copperfield brings out in me!