When Trisha’s father passed away in 2004, he left her his library. Over the years, she kept only the most precious pieces. In her den, on a prominent shelf, is the fifteen book set of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, by the Kelmscott Society Publishers, New York. The volumes are not dated, but I found through online research that they were published in 1904.
The books are now brittle, some of the spines have crumbled, and I don’t think any of the books themselves would survive a reading. They would disintegrate from being handled.
But precious they are, on that shelf, to remind her of her father, who himself must have acquired them when they were already old.
I have never read any Dickens, but it gives me comfort to know the complete works are in our house.
I have the similar feelings about the books. It was really nice of Trisha, who took good care of them.
I have tried to read Dickens, but his style is too vaudevillian for me — the TV renditions are the most I can take of him, and even then only if they are updated and not so — back of the hand to the forehead — kind of thing. But fair dues, he flowed with plot and characters whom most people love to pieces.