John Forster (1) (1812–1876)

Most of us are at least slightly acquainted with the works of Charles Dickens. He is one of the great writers of the Victorian era, and his books have become iconic works that still delight and amaze readers, movie buffs and theater goers. John Forster was his friend of some thirty-four years. Living in the Victorian age, they wrote to one another and much of Forster’s memory of Dickens can be supported by a large volume of letters still in Forster’s keeping upon Dickens’ death.

The best parts of this biography for me were the excerpts from Dickens letters, which sparkle just as his fictional writings do and ooze with personality. Poor Forster is a bit on the dry side with much of his writing, but his devotion to his friend could not be more obvious, which makes me like him quite a lot.

Of course, if you want a balanced view of Charles Dickens and who he really was, you would have to go further afield than this. No negative event or action by Dickens will be revealed by John Forster, which made me think of reading Mrs. Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography of Charlotte Bronte. However, does it not say a lot about a man that he can secure the friendship of another and keep it for such a time, and leaving this earth, have someone who wants to tell everyone, besides having a talent that was indisputable, what a decent and good friend he was? There will be no such lines to eulogize me, and Forster’s admiration extends far beyond Dickens’ obviously masterful writing abilities and is grounded in something that surpasses his fame and fortune.

It is one thing to look at a man from a distance and evaluate him without emotion, and quite another to know the man intimately and wish to pass on to those who will not ever have any opportunity to know him so well the essence of who this man was to you. I give Forster high marks for his desire to do this and his attempt to set the man, Dickens, on paper. I have a best friend, since the seventh grade we have been as close as possible; I know her secrets, she knows mine. If I were writing her biography, I would not divulge anything that might be hurtful; I would tell the world she is wonderful, and that would be the absolute truth. From a personal view, I understand; from a historical view, you might need to supplement this biography with another, written later by a stranger.

If you have an interest in the creative process that produced Dickens’ great works, Forster does a good job of giving you that. He follows the appearance of the books in their chronology and spends some time on the process that Dickens goes through putting them on paper. That he produced such timeless stories, without any failure, while under the enormous pressures of both finances and fame, is remarkable. The shameless manner in which people cheated him early on is reprehensible. The details of his earliest days are captivating, and the way in which he wove these experiences into his novels, fascinating.

Dickens’ trip to America was enlightening but by far the least interesting portion of this volume. You might think it would have been otherwise for me, being an American, but I found Dickens had really little appreciation for the States and I despair to think we might have been as backward and uncouth as he generally painted us. Somehow I never think of Dickens and Washington Irving as contemporaries, and Dickens’ view of our penal system of the time and how trains ran was not at all the way I had pictured Washington and Philadelphia at this time. He did, however, meet John Quincy Adams, whom I would have presumed dead by this date, so how surprising is that?

Although I found parts of this a slog, I am happy to have read this volume and hope to continue the subsequent ones to the end. When I have done, I will seek out A Life by Claire Tomalin to see how they differ and what details Forster thought best not to share regarding his dear friend. Meanwhile Mr. Dickens languishes in America, while I get to close the volume and return to Victorian England, if I so desire.… (meer)