About Dickens’ story, you already know. Thanks to numerous film adaptations, including my favorite, “Scrooge,” starring the inimitable Albert Finney in the title role, everybody is familiar with this vintage tale of yuletide misanthropy and redemption.
But precisely because “A Christmas Carol” endures so vividly on television, many readers haven’t felt the need to read the book. But Dickens' original narrative warrants our attention; like any classic, it promises something new with each repeated encounter.
One long-ago Christmas, while she was working as a young, single woman on Capitol Hill, my wife gave a copy of “A Christmas Carol” to a girlfriend, only to discover that her girlfriend had given her the very same gift.
In exchanging copies of “A Christmas Carol” while far away from their homes of origin, my wife and friend were perhaps trying to remind themselves of the abiding lesson of Dickens’ story: Even when we feel most alone at Christmas, the season’s promise of fellowship is often just within our grasp.
That promise is what keeps me reading – and rereading – “A Christmas Carol” each yuletide.
