In this remarkable new biography, Peter Ackroyd offers a different view of Dickens to that presented in his earlier study of the author. In that book, Ackroyd's attempts to mimic the voice of the great writer were highly controversial, though some saw the book as a radical re-invention of the biography form. There is no arguing with the brilliant achievement of the more straightforward Charles Dickens: Public Life and Private Passion, however; the picture of Dickens and his complicated private life that emerges is fastidiously detailed and powerfully evocative, while Ackroyd's customary skill at creating a panoply of the city of London is as dazzling as ever (London, is, in fact, the subject of another biography by the author, who is unquestionably the keenest chronicler of the city's colourful history). Here, Ackroyd attempts to peel away the mask of a man whose life was outwardly a picture of Victorian rectitude, but whose love life was as complicated (and unconventional) as any modern writer. Dickens had everything--fame, success and riches--but he died harbouring a deep sadness he had experienced all his life. He was a man of mercurial character, had enormous vitality and humour, but he also had a sense of loss and longing that would constantly appear in his work. Like many eminent Victorians, he led a double life: although he insisted that nothing in the newspapers he edited should upset his middle-class readers, he regularly indulged in dubious night-time escapades with fellow author Wilkie Collins, and, for the last 13 years of his life, kept a secret mistress.

While presenting a warm but astringent portrait of the man who (along with George Eliot) can be classed as the greatest writer of his age, Ackroyd also masterfully recreates the relationship with the actress Ellen Ternan, a strong and intelligent woman (herself the subject of a biography by Claire Tomalin, The Inviisble Woman who, like her lover, outwardly observed the proprieties while living her real life behind closed doors. Ackroyd also vividly conjures the reality of Victorian life, the issues that sparked Dickens' fervent call for social reform, and the great landmarks of the time, which profoundly affected his life and work. --Barry Forshaw

2008-05-27 Unsatisfying and frustrating

Without realising it I picked up the abridged version of Peter Ackroyd's Dickens, and perhaps this is why I cannot agree with the good reviews of this book. It is well written and goes into great detail about all happenings- every story, every periodical, every novel, however the abridged version (of around 600 pages) refuses to talk about the important emotional relationships in Dickens' life. Just over 4 paragraphs are given to his break up with his wife (and most of these concern the legal settlement rather than any meaningful analysis of the break up). His relationship with his mother and father are mentioned at the beginning of the book but nothing pays off further into the book. Ackroyd asserts that Dickens had an ambiguous and not altogether good relationship with his mother and then proceeds to produce not one piece of evidence or feeling to back this statement up. Ackroyd is happy to make fatalistic assumptions; for example Dickens thinking train carriages were tilting to the left side after his crash 'because he had a swollen left foot' but is not willing to explore in any detail his relationship with Ellen Ternan, or track IN ANY WAY his falling out of love with his wife. Ackroyd also fails to explore Dickens' relationship with his children in any meaningful way- mentioning that his sons always felt inadequate but again not giving us any indication or evidence to suggest this was the case.

After 600 pages I was so dissatisfied I felt like going to read the primary source material myself in order that I could understand Dickens not in the context of his periodical, his stories and his books but as a man who had relationships with people around him.

Amanda Foreman's Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire as a historical biography (it is worth pointing out that this was actually written by a historian instead of a journalist, novelist and literary critic) shows a greater command of the material available and is able to plot relationships and feelings. In the abridged edition of Dickens, at least, Ackroyd fails spectacularly to do so. I don't know whether I wish I had picked up the full version, if I was to get through 1200 pages with the same conclusion I can only imagine my further frustration.