Charles John Huffam Dickens (/ˈtʃɑːrlz ˈdɪkɪnz/; 7 February 1812 – 9 June 1870) was an English writer and social critic. He created some of the world's best-known fictional characters and is regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era. His works enjoyed unprecedented popularity during his lifetime, and by the twentieth century critics and scholars had recognised him as a literary genius. His novels and short stories enjoy lasting popularity.
Born in Portsmouth, Dickens left school to work in a factory when his father was incarcerated in a debtors' prison. Despite his lack of formal education, he edited a weekly journal for 20 years, wrote 15 novels, five novellas, hundreds of short stories and non-fiction articles, lectured and performed extensively, was an indefatigable letter writer, and campaigned vigorously for children's rights, education, and other social reforms.
Dickens's literary success began with the 1836 serial publication of The Pickwick Papers. Within a few years he had become an international literary celebrity, famous for his humour, satire, and keen observation of character and society. His novels, most published in monthly or weekly instalments, pioneered the serial publication of narrative fiction, which became the dominant Victorian mode for novel publication. The instalment format allowed Dickens to evaluate his audience's reaction, and he often modified his plot and character development based on such feedback. For example, when his wife's chiropodist expressed distress at the way Miss Mowcher in David Copperfield seemed to reflect her disabilities, Dickens improved the character with positive features. His plots were carefully constructed, and he often wove elements from topical events into his narratives. Masses of the illiterate poor chipped in ha'pennies to have each new monthly episode read to them, opening up and inspiring a new class of readers.
I lived a happy life ‘til I was ten years old
When debt landed dad in prison and our country house
was sold
Lunched with a lady in her London flat so cold
Worked at a good polish factory, labelling jars quite
Donald told
Goodness only knows
I was a miserable soul
For a time I went to school but then I found a job
As a clerk to a lawyer, oh it made my poor head throb
I failed to be an actor, despite my loud gob
Ended up reporting speeches of the parliamentary mob
Then as everybody knows
I started writing pros
Put my life into my books
Friends and enemies and crooks
Legal bosses of the crop
In “The Old Curiosity Shop”
Fagin in “Oliver Twist”
A factory pal, you get the gist
And although my memory’s quite foggy
Got Scrooge from the grave of Ebenezer Scroggy
My first book was an overnight sensation
But I drove myself too hard to enjoy the agilation
Despite my wealth, my family begged for money
I wrote of it in “Chuzzlewit” which people said was
funny
Didn’t sell like books before
My family still asked for more
“Little Dorrit” is a tale
About my dad in debtor’s jail
While “Hard Times” tells my life ‘bout
When I tried to leave my wife
“Little Nell’s” here was my poor dear
Departed sister-in-law
And “David Copperfield”, working in a factory
I must confess that that was really me
In my life, felt shamed ‘bout poverty in childhood
Wrote about sadness, suffering and fears
Also wrote about people with funny names
Bumble, Smallweed, Scrooge, Uriah Heep
And Wackford Squeers
Whilst writing “Edwin Drood”
Train crashed in, helped my mood
Still I drove myself on
With readings far across the pond
Died before I wrote Drood’s end
Something drove me ‘round the bend
So Dickens, take a dickens, take a bow
And Heaven knows