I’m a huge Charles Dickens fan. This year only I’ve read The Pickwick Papers, Great Expectations, and A Tale of Two Cities (okay, and an easy Catalan version of A Christmas Carol, let’s count that one, too). I love the juicy and vivid language that Dickens uses in his novels. How can a man develop such a vast, diverse vocabulary? It always astonishes me. I also adore the kind of mild irony that Dickens is an unquestionable master of; seldom is he sarcastic towards his characters, I would rather say that he usually comments on their trials and tribulations with a warm, fatherly smile on his face. He is so compassionate and tender about every human being that appears in his novels, no matter if he or she is a thief, a swindler, or an escaped prisoner. Moreover, Dickens is one of those authors whose writing triggers a kind of multisensory reaction. Every time Dickens’s heroes would celebrate Christmas dinner, or feast in a roadside inn, I couldn’t help getting terribly hungry, and I would end up fetching myself a chunky slice of bread with butter generously spread all over it. That’s what I call the power of literature.