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.
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
