Oliver Twist
Autor Charles Dickensen Limba Engleză Paperback – 24 iun 2020
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Specificații
ISBN-10: 1800606737
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 21 mm
Greutate: 0.52 kg
Editura: Mary Publishing Company
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Notă biografică
Textul de pe ultima copertă
Charles Dickens's famous second novel recounts the story of a boy born in the workhouse and raised in an infant farm as he tries to make his way in the world. Intended to raise feeling against the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 (which had emphasized the workhouse as an appropriate means of dealing with the problem of poverty), Oliver Twist also provides a sweeping portrait of London life in the 1830s--including the life of the criminal elements in society.
Oliver Twist was first published in serialised form (with illustrations by George Cruikshank) in Bentley's Miscellany between February 1837 and April 1839. It was issued with some corrections and revisions in ten numbers in 1846 by Bradbury and Evans (which then also issued the same text in a single volume). Each of these ten numbers, including the Cruikshank illustrations and the advertisements, is included in this facsimile reprint of the 1846 edition.
This is one of a series from Broadview Press of facsimile reprint editions--editions that provide readers with a direct sense of these works as the Victorians themselves experienced them.
Descriere
When a young orphan runs away to London, he falls in with a group of pickpockets and thieves. Oliver Twist (1838), is one of Charles Dicken's most highly regarded works, and is a pioneering work of social realism. An unvarnished portrayal of crime and poverty in Victorian England, this is an essential classic of literature.
"The greatest writer of his time."-Edmund Wilson
"One of the great poets of the novel, a genius of his art"-Edgar Johnson
"In Oliver Twist ...Dickens attacked English institutions with a ferocity that has never since been approached."-George Orwell
With an incredible cast of characters, and an unvarnished portrayal of the early 1800's criminal underbelly in Victorian London, Dicken's second novel is an unforgettable masterpiece of the English language. Oliver Twist begins in a workhouse north of London where a young orphan named Oliver lives a brutal and impoverished life, and is subjected to a series of torments as he is handed off to an undertaker to work as a mourner at funerals. After a succession of maltreatments, Oliver runs away to London for a better life.
In London, Oliver unwittingly falls into company of a gang of juvenile pickpockets who are under the spell of the sinister criminal Fagin and makes his home with them. Oliver is mistakenly accused of pickpocketing an older gentleman named Mr. Brownlow and arrested. In the ensuing trial Mr. Brownlow recognizes that Oliver was indeed innocent of the crime and takes him into care at his residence. Just as it appears that his life has improved Oliver is accosted back into the world of Fagin and his band of young miscreants. In the ensuing twists of fate, a great mystery is revealed, and Oliver finally fulfills his retribution.
With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of Oliver Twist is both modern and readable.
Extras
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 befal 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 dear 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 gruel7 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."
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Recenzii
—Guardian
"We leave him most reluctantly, and so will every reader who has any capacity to see and feel whatsoever is most loveable, hateful, or laughable, in the character of the everyday life about him."
—Examiner
"He deals truly with human nature, which never can degrade; he takes up everything, good, bad, or indifferent, which he works up into a rich alluvial deposit. He is natural, and that never can be ridiculous."
—Quarterly Review