One day when I was 14 years old, my English teacher (Mr Atherton by name, bless him) walked into the classroom and began to talk about the joys of secondhand bookshops. I'd never even (knowingly)
seen a secondhand bookshop, let alone been in one, and I was intrigued. The reason he was talking about this was that just a few days earlier he'd found a nineteenth century copy of
The Pickwick Papers, with all the original etched illustrations, and it had cost him next to nothing. Not surprisingly, he was thrilled, and wanted to share the fun of it.
Talk about influence! Something about this tale captured my imagination immediately, and I determined (a) to find a secondhand bookshop, and (b) to track down for myself an old copy of
Pickwick with its original illustrations. So began a lifetime infatuation with secondhand bookshops and old books. How much I owe that man. Rest in peace and gratitude, Mr Atherton.
Nice (but cheap) old copies of
Pickwick are not that common, so although I found several old bookshops pretty quickly, I had to wait much longer for my C19th edition. I made do with a copy from the Library instead, and found it far more enjoyable than I expected, though I always felt it went off towards the end. What began as a delightfully comic tale became altogether too bleak, I thought; and I still would criticise the book for lacking coherence. Yes, I know, written in parts as it was, with its particular history, and its patchwork origin as a text to accompany a handful of etchings, coherence isn't exactly what one would expect from it; but still - he did spoil it, for me. I was still hung up on the theory of tittlebats and Dickens was asking me to confront the plight of Jingle in the Fleet.
Anyway,
Pickwick would always find a place in any list of my top ten all-time favourite books, just because of my fondness for how it all began, though I wonder how many more re-readings lie ahead of me. Not so many, I think. The competition is a lot fiercer now than when I was 14.
