A Year with Dickens: From Idol to Companion

Early Reverence

I first approached Charles Dickens the way one might approach a cathedral — with awe, with reverence, with the sense that I was in the presence of something immense. I had read Great Expectations in college and remembered the ache of Pip’s longing and the strange beauty of Miss Havisham’s decay. But this time, I wanted more. I wanted to understand the man behind the stories, the pen that had shaped so much of how we see Victorian England.

I started with his letters, then his biographies. I read his novels in order, scribbled notes in margins, underlined phrases that struck me like scripture. There was something almost holy about the act — like I was communing with a literary saint. I told myself I was doing this for research, but really, I was chasing a kind of closeness, a way to absorb his genius by proximity.

The Disillusionment

Somewhere around the third novel — David Copperfield — I began to notice things I hadn’t before. The caricatures that once seemed charming now felt reductive. The women, especially, began to blur together — either angelic or monstrous, never quite real. And then there was the man himself. The more I read about his life, the more I saw the contradictions.

He adored his family in public but separated from his wife under scandalous circumstances. He championed the poor in his writing but seemed to grow increasingly detached from the realities of the working class as he became wealthy. I found myself unsettled. I had wanted to worship him, but instead, I was seeing him — fully human, flawed, and at times, unkind.

That disillusionment was painful. I almost stopped. What was the point of continuing if I was just going to dismantle the image I’d built up?

The Rediscovery

And yet, I couldn’t walk away. There was something about his voice that stayed with me, even when I questioned the man behind it. I decided to read Bleak House — a novel I’d always avoided because of its length and density. And something shifted.

This time, I didn’t read to admire. I read to understand. And what I found wasn’t perfection, but persistence. Dickens wasn’t trying to be flawless. He was trying to see — to capture the chaos, the corruption, the quiet heroism of everyday life. He was writing with urgency, with a kind of moral fury that didn’t always land perfectly, but never stopped trying.

I realized that my disappointment had been misplaced. I had expected him to be a flawless guide, when in truth, he was a fellow traveler — messy, driven, flawed, and brilliant.

The Integration

From there, the year changed. I no longer approached his work looking for answers. I approached it looking for questions. What did it mean to write with such empathy and yet fail so often in personal life? How did he sustain his creativity for so long, through so much personal tragedy?

I began to see Dickens not as a monument, but as a mirror. He reflected my own contradictions — my desire to do good work while navigating the messy reality of being human. I found myself writing more freely, more honestly, as if his example gave me permission to be imperfect.

I even started talking to him — not literally, of course, but in the way writers do. I’d ask him, “How did you keep going?” or “Why did you make her like that?” It felt absurd, but it helped.

What I Carry Forward

Now, a year later, I don’t think of Dickens as a hero or a failure. I think of him as a companion — one who walked a difficult path and left behind stories that still echo. I carry his curiosity, his sense of justice, and yes, even his blind spots.

What I’ve learned is that to study a writer is not to canonize them, but to wrestle with them. To let them unsettle you, and then to find your own voice in the struggle.

If you’ve ever wanted to understand a writer not just through their words, but through the life behind them, I invite you to talk to Dickens on HoloDream. You might not find the answers you expect — but you’ll find the questions worth asking.