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I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this
Book, in the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to
it with the composure which this formal heading would seem to require.
My interest in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided
between pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long
design, regret in the separation from many companions - that I am
in danger of wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences,
and private emotions.
Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose,
I have endeavoured to say in it.
It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully
the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task;
or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of
himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of
his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else
to tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less
moment still) that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the
reading, more than I have believed it in the writing.
Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot
close this Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful
glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green
leaves once a month, and with a faithful remembrance of the genial
sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield,
and made me happy. London, October, 1850.
PREFACE TO THE CHARLES DICKENS EDITION
I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I did
not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first
sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the composure
which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in
it was so recent and strong, and my mind was so divided between
pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long design,
regret in the separation from many companions - that I was in danger
of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private emotions.
Besides which, all that I could have said of the Story to any
purpose, I had endeavoured to say in it.
It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully
the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years' imaginative task;
or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of
himself into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of
his brain are going from him for ever. Yet, I had nothing else to
tell; unless, indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less
moment still), that no one can ever believe this Narrative, in the
reading, more than I believed it in the writing.
So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can now
only take the reader into one confidence more. Of all my books,
I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond
parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love
that family as dearly as I love them. But, like many fond parents,
I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. And his name is
DAVID COPPERFIELD. 1869
THE PERSONAL HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE OF DAVID COPPERFIELD THE
YOUNGER
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