Although I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred.

A classic.
A tragedy.
A horror.
A love story.
A fairytale.
Oliver Twist is the bleakest and brightest of tales. Charles Dickens weaves together all of the elements necessary for a gripping story. What I love most, however, is Mr. Dickens' expert ability to paint a vivid world where the interactions of bold characters evoke powerful emotions from readers. Reading this book was both a venture and an education. The story is captivating. The many characters are awful and wonderful. Scattered throughout the book are gems of wisdom, notable quotes which I paused to highlight so I can reread them time and again. I highly recommend this book to story lovers. It is a masterpiece. ( )

“Oliver Twist” by Charles Dickens
BIBLIOGRAPHIC DETAILS
PRINT:
© (1837 – 1839 serial, 1838 book) 2013, January 1; 978-1464302039; World Publications Group, Inc. 394 pp. (Info from Amazon)
DIGITAL:
© [1837 – 1839 serial, 1838 book] 2013, May 22; 9780307950567; Vintage Classics; 449 pages; unabridged (Info from Amazon)
(this one)-AUDIO:
© 2008, July 29; Audible; 16 hours, 7 min.; unabridged. (info from Audible)
FILM:
No.
SERIES:
No
SUMMARY/ EVALUATION:
SELECTED:
Every now and then, one just must read a Dickens novel if there’s still a great many unread!
ABOUT:
As if you all don’t know what this book is about. But really, I will act as though you are as ignorant as I was when I began it, which means no spoilers. So I’ll be real basic here and say this book is about an Orphan and the dismal lives of such in England in the 1800’s.
OVERALL OPINION:
One must brace oneself when commencing a Dickens novel to be exposed to the vicissitudes of poverty and the mean folks who take advantage of those in that state, or are miserable examples of humanity for having suffered it themselves.
Of course it’s a great book.
AUTHOR:
Charles Dickens (From Wikipedia)
“Charles John Huffam Dickens (/ˈdɪkɪnz/; 7 February 1812 – 9 June 1870) was an English novelist, journalist, short story writer and social critic. He created some of literature's best-known fictional characters, and is regarded by many as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era.[1] His works enjoyed unprecedented popularity during his lifetime and, by the 20th century, critics and scholars had recognised him as a literary genius. His novels and short stories are widely read today.[2][3]”
*ME: There’s, of course, much more to the Wikipedia article, but surprisingly Wikipedia says little of Dickens acting endeavors. I read a biography and he often staged and acted in plays based on his novels.
NARRATOR:
Simon Vance (From Wikipedia)
“Simon Vance (born December 16, 1955) is an audiobook narrator and actor who performs contemporary literary works as well as classics, children's books, and nonfiction. He has won 16 Audie Awards[1] since 2002. Specializing in single-voice narration, he was named the American Library Association's Booklist Magazine Voice of Choice[2] in 2008, and has earned AudioFile Magazine's Earphones Award for more than 60 performances since 1998.[3] He has also narrated audiobooks under the names of Richard Matthews and Robert Whitfield.[4] He lives in Los Angeles, California.[5]”
*ME: Simon is a really marvelous narrator! He makes one hesitate to see a movie based on the book, feeling the acting will likely not measure up to Simon’s.
GENRE:
Historical Fiction; Classic literature; British Literature; 19th Century;
SUBJECTS (Not comprehensive):
Poverty; Workhouse; Orphans; Crime; Pick-pockets; Thieves; Social classes;
TIME PERIOD:
19th Century
LOCATIONS (Not comprehensive)
London
DEDICATION:
Not found.
EXCERPT
From Chapter 1: “TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN, AND OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH
AMONG OTHER PUBLIC BUILDINGS in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, ‘Let me see the child, and die.’
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
‘Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.’
‘Lor bless her heart, no!’ interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. ‘Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.’
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
‘It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!’ said the surgeon at last.
‘Ah, poor dear, so it is!’ said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. ‘Poor dear!’
‘You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,’ said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. ‘It’s very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.’ He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, ‘She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?’
‘She was brought here last night,’ replied the old woman, ‘by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.’
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. ‘The old story,’ he said, shaking his head: ‘no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good night!’
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.”
RATTING:
5 stars.
STARTED-FINISHED
9/27/2024-10/07/2024

Well Oliver, it was fun. Mostly. I loved A Tale of Two Cities, hated Great Expectations, and sort-of-liked Oliver Twist. I understand the point of the novel, and there were some parts that were so exquisitely written as to make me wonder where the beautiful writing of the English language has gone, but most of it was kind of....meh. Oliver was naive, honest, and good in the beginning of the novel and he was naive, honest, and good at the end of the novel.

I just don't think these types of books appeal to modern day readers as much as they did 150 years ago. There is a lot of beauty in the horrid scenes that are depicted by Dickens in this novel, but it just wasn't that much fun for me. That isn't to say that I don't understand why others love this novel or that there aren't great things about it.

I just thought it was okay, especially when compared with some of his later novels where he became a bit more serious. ( )

I swear, I had totally forgotten how Dickens writes. I was astonished when my son asked me to read this to him after the first time. I have to stop and explain something about every other paragrap. But, never having read this, I am actually enjoying it, despite its weary trudge along bleakness.

We're reading it because I love "Oliver!" and have talked about the movie/plot/songs so much that Graham was asking me yet again about it... so I suggested we get the movie and book from the library. ( )