← The History of Literature
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The History of Literature Podcast is a member of the podglomerate Network and Lit Hub Radio. Hey folks, it's Jack. Let's talk about comfort. What does that word mean for you? It might be the comfort of being well rested. No tossing and turning, just deep, refreshing rest with support for your back and good organic materials like wool and latex to keep you cool. No more sweating at night. Trust the wisdom of Mother Nature. Comfort might also mean putting your money to good use, investing in a product that's smart for your health, your home and the planet. That's where Avocado Green Mattress comes in. It's an eco friendly, health conscious choice from a company that values transparency and ethical practices. It's the right mix of luxury and sustainability. Better for you and better for the planet. Head to avocadogreenmattress.com today and check out their mattress and bedding sale. Avocado Dream of better Toast the holidays.
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Hello, we reclaim an old episode on Ebenezer Scrooge today on the history of literature. Foreign. Here we go. It's 2025 and the Christmas season is here. And what could be better for Christmas than Christmas Time with Ebenezer Scrooge and the famous, famous, famous story A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, who loved Christmas so deeply and with such passionate fervor. I would say he's come to define Christmas in a certain way for the English speaking world. I first did an episode on Scrooge back in 2020. It was episode 293, but that was one we had to take down from the archives for various reasons. And now looking back, I see it had a lot of interludes and letters and news and all of that. So instead of just reposting the episode, I'm cutting out the Scrooge parts and we're just going to give you those all protein, Dickens and Scrooge. And that's it. Let's get started. He's one of the most famous characters in literature, one of the handful who have transcended the limits of their pages and ascended to something more like a myth or legend or archetype Robinson Crusoe, the Castaway. Or Sherlock Holmes, the Detective, Harry Potter, the Boy wizard. Reaching back further, we have Faust and Don Juan and Robin Hood and Don Quixote, King Arthur, Dorothy, Brer Rabbit, Oliver Twist, Lady Macbeth. Names of fictional characters who represent something, who signifies something. For Christmas, we have the Grinch, whose heart is two sizes too small until it's not. The Grinch has a predecessor, though. An obvious one. The Grinch. What a great name, by the way. Grinch. Grinch. Dr. Seuss really struck gold with that one. It sounds like a greedy, pinched man. Right? Grinch. That's a genius name. Think about names like that. Romeo is another one. You Romeo. Hello, Romeo. That guy's a Romeo. You know that means love, right, Romeo? Well, Grinch is like that too. You Grinch. He's a Grinch. Even if you've never heard of the story, you can probably guess just from the way the name sounds. I want to get a real tree this year, but my wife is being a Grinch. Names that can represent a type. Grinch is right up there. But when it comes to names of genius, our author today takes a backseat to no one. I'm talking, of course, about Charles Dickens, the 19th century dynamo who created the great predecessor to the Grinch. And just listen to this name. Ebenezer Scrooge. Ebenezer Scrooge. What a glorious, triumphant name. Ebenezer. It sounds so cold. Like a drafty house. Like a sneeze. Five E's in that name and four consonants. It's like the consonants aren't enough to keep out the wind, Right? Not enough blanket to cover the body. In that word, Ebenezer. Like a. Like a shuddering skeleton of a house. The thin frame that loses the heat. And a perfect name for a ghost to say, which we will get to. Okay, and then last name. Scrooge. Scrooge. Another ghost name. A howl. It's hard to separate it from miserliness. What does a Scrooge make you think of? A screw, maybe twisting into the wood. Scru and J. Like scrap and drudge, with an oo in the middle, like boo. A ghost sound. Scraps. Boo. Drudge or grudge. Ooze and drudge. A miser's name. The name has a tremendous origin story. We travel to Scotland for this, where a man lives as a corn merchant and vintner. He sells wine and grain, food and drink, and he's as merry as that sounds. This is in Edinburgh in the early 19th century. He's the great nephew of a great man. His Mother's uncle is Adam Smith, the author of the wealth of nations and A Theory of Moral Sentiment. A reputable man, an enlightened intellectual, one of Scotland's finest. Along comes our man, let's call him S. For now, a generation or two later, who sells corn and wine. And he distinguishes himself at a church service by goosing a countess. During a debate, he, as the Scotsman newspaper reports, he, quote, grabbed the buttocks of a hapless countess and quote, they also note that he impregnated the odd serving wench. But this was part of his lifestyle. Rambunctious, licentious, the kind of man, one suspects who has a lampshade on his head at the office Christmas party. A big spender, living, for the moment, the life of the party. So what happens next? He dies. He's buried. And a few years later, Charles Dickens comes to town on one of his lecture tours. While he's waiting, he wanders into a cemetery. He sees the grave of our lampshade office party Scotsman, Ebenezer Scroggy. It says, for that was the man's name, the man I was calling S. Ebenezer Scroggy. And underneath the on his tombstone it says Mean Man. And Dickens is haunted by that. He leaves the cemetery, but the cemetery doesn't leave him. He writes about it later. What must a man's life be like to be called Mean man by all those around? We try to think good of the dead. What's the phrase? We don't speak ill of the dead. We say good father, good husband, loving wife, beloved member of the community. We don't say mean man. We don't carve that on the tombstone. Mean Man. You'd have to be a real Scrooge to get that name. Although Dickens can't think that phrase, of course, because he hasn't invented Scrooge yet. But Scrooge is forming in his mind. Ebenezer Scroggy, mean man. We're just months away now from the moment of creation, Dickens writes in his notebook. To be remembered through eternity only for being mean seemed the greatest testament to a life wasted. Look at that little shift there. It's at the heart of Dickens project. Not just look at how much people resented him or look at how hated he was, but look at the wasted life, right? It's not about the people and their judgment. It's about the person who led a life that created that, that inspired that judgment. Ultimately, I'm jumping way ahead here, but the Christmas Carol story is not really about Scrooge Succumbing to the hatred of others or being inspired by the kindness of others. That's the Grinch story, right? He sees that he can't tamp down the Christmas spirit. That's the television show, anyway, the Grinch. I haven't checked the book. He tries to steal Christmas, but the next day, the people are singing anyway. And it moves him. They're willing to celebrate Christmas even without presents and trees and lights and roast beast. Their goodness, their Christmas cheer literally expands old Grinchy's heart. Christmas Carol has some of this, too, but it's more about Scrooge's life and the life wasted. We'll see that coming up. But listen to Dickens. Here to be remembered through eternity only for being mean seemed the greatest testament to a life wasted. Dickens sees that grave, and he doesn't just think, wow, look at this evil. Look at this personification of evil. And he doesn't just think, people must have really hated this guy Scroggy. They couldn't come up with one nice thing to say about him. They had to carve this on his tombstone. Mean man. No. Dickens thinks, here's a man who has wasted his life, who says that being mean wastes your life. A lot of mean people would probably disagree. Well, who says that? Dickens, that's who. Dickens, who grew up in the poorhouse, who tried his whole life to make things better for others, who tried to help children, who tried to reform laws, who set up a home for fallen women, had tried to turn their lives around, which he managed for 10 years, who raised money for hospitals going bankrupt, and who constantly railed against the poverty and squalor affecting the working poor of London and beyond. Dickens wanted change. He saw suffering and he wanted to change it. And. And he was tireless, writing and writing and writing, giving tours, playing cricket for hours, raising a million kids, somehow exuding energy. And he sees a grave that says, ebenezer Scroggy, Mean man. You can imagine him shuddering at that. You can imagine him saying, well, this is not how I want to be remembered and not how anyone should ever want to be remembered. He adjusts the last name. Scroggy. It's maybe a little too cute, kind of like a children's character, like Scrooge McDuck maybe. Kind of makes you smile. McDuck. He lengthens the name out into something less adorable. Instead of Ebenezer Scroggy, we get Ebenezer Scrooge. Ebenezer Scrooge. You can hear the ghosts rattling their chains with that name. I can imagine Dickens in that dark Cemetery in Edinburgh as he waits for his lecture to begin. The shivering trees, the wind, the cold reality of the tombstone. Mean man, a life wasted. Well, as it turns out, Dickens messed that one up. He misread the grave. It didn't say Mean man, it said Meal man, because Scroggy was known for selling corn. The meal Meal. But let's not look too closely at the sources of inspiration here. Let's just look at the inspiration itself. Dickens thinking that here's a cold, hard testament to a wasted life right there, etched in stone. Mean Man. What would it be like to Show Ebenezer this Mr. Scroggy, who I'm going to call Scrooge? What's it. What would it be like to show him the error of his ways, to change him? Dickens thinks. What if he's visited by ghosts the way I myself am haunted by this image of Scroggy's life? What if we could see how this man got to be so mean and what it meant that he was? Maybe he wasn't always mean. Maybe that's something that developed. And what if we gave him a chance to see what it was like before he was mean? And what if we made all this happen around Christmas time, that time of year when so many people get together with their families and so many people are festive and are generous and who also, even though their best selves come out, they also sometimes overlook the suffering of others. That's the twin Dickens project, right? That's where he overlaps with the Grinch. On the one hand, Christmas brings out the best in everyone. The singing. When else do people just sing? Sing? Generations together. People, carolers going out and gifts. When do you give a couple of gifts on a birthday? When do you have a whole group of people all giving gifts to one another? 4, 6, 8, 10, 12 people all exchanging gifts. It's amazing, but it's also Christmas. It's also a time when people are especially blind, that others are less fortunate. Enter the ghosts to show us all what we're too blind to see. Or in this case, enter the tireless writer, the world famous novelist, who's going to play that part himself, in a sense. And we are still absorbing the lesson almost two centuries later. We've been absorbing that lesson in many, many productions. I'm not sure what the counts are now of the people who've read A Christmas Carol and the people who've seen a version of it on television or film. The latter likely outnumber the former, which is too bad in a sense, because the book holds up and reading it is a pleasurable experience. It's not that long. Put that on your list of December things to do along with reading the Dubliners and its magnificent final story, the Dead, maybe the greatest Christmas story in all of literature. But I was about to tell you about some of the many versions adaptations of A Christmas Carol, including the actors who played the main character, like George C. Scott, who is my favorite personal Scrooge. There have been some other good ones too. Charles Dickens himself was famous for his performances of A Christmas Carol. He was a one man show traveling around England playing something like 38 characters, apparently bringing them all to life. Too bad that a filmed version of that could not have been made thanks to technology not being ready for it. But that would be fun to see. Patrick Stewart has maybe given us the best equivalent in our lifetime with his one man shows. Albert Finney played Scrooge and oh my goodness. Should we just go through a list of the people who've played Scrooge? I'm just going to name a few. These are from Wikipedia. They have links to a lot of these if you want to check them out. There are videos. There are close to a hundred. Lionel Barrymore, of course, Mr. Potter himself. That's good training. Play Scrooge so you can play Potter and It's a Wonderful Life. Orson Welles even played Scrooge once. Claude Rains, Ronald Coleman, Alistair Simon, Basil Rathbone, Jim Backus who was in Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol. Marcel Marceau presumably one of the quieter versions. Rich little as W.C. fields as Scrooge. That's quite a journey. Walter Matthaus played him. Henry Winkler AKA the Fonz played him. Mel Blanc took a turn in the Jetsons Christmas Carol. Bill Murray in Scrooged. Some of these are inspired by like Rowan Atkinson, aka Mr. Bean in Blackadder, who played Ebenezer Blackadder. There's a point to this, but let me keep going. Michael Caine was in the Muppet Christmas Carol. James Earl Jones was in Bah Humbug. A slew of Broadway stars played Scrooge in the musical, including Tony Randall, hal Linden, Roddy McDowell, F. Murray Abraham, F.R. langella, Tony Roberts and Roger Daltrey. Cicely Tyson played Ebonita Scrooge and Susan Lucci played Elizabeth Ebby Scrooge. Vanessa Williams played Ebony Scrooge. Torrey Spelling was Scroogette. It's nice to see women getting into the act here. Jack Palance took a turn. Kelsey Grammer, Jim Carrey, Matthew McConaughey, Michael Gambone Christopher Plummer, Seth MacFarlane, and Guy Pearce. It's a powerful kind of storytelling that can generate all these adaptations. It's pretty simple, really. As simple as a fairy tale. A man is a miser, ungenerous, too focused on business and pinching Pennies and ghosts arrive to show him his past, his present and his Christmas is yet to come. And he changes his ways. He decides not to waste his life. He learns a lesson. He lives a more generous life. It's a beautiful Christmas story. Let's take a quick break now, then return with more about Charles Dickens and Ebenezer Scrooge. Sam hey folks, it's the holidays, which means you need energy and a robust immune system. Let me tell you about my morning routine. I exercise, I put a scoop of AG1 powder into a water bottle, I shake it up and I'm good to go. 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So we talked about the change from Scroggy to Scrooge. But what about the name Ebenezer? Where does that name come from? That one Dickens didn't even need to change. Ebenezer is it. How does the origin. Does it match its sound? Its sound is good enough for me, but the name kind of fits too. As it turns out, the name Ebenezer comes from the Hebrew. The words Eben for stone and Ezer for help. I'm not sure I'm pronouncing that correctly in Hebrew. It appears in the Old Testament Israelites were worshiping some local pagan deities. Oh boy, here we go. If you've read the Bible or remember the stories from Sunday school, you'll know what's going to happen here. This is like Chekhov's famous gun. If it's on the wall in the first act, it better go off before the last act. Well, when the Israelites are worshiping local pagan deities, the gun is about to go off. The God gun. Let the thundering begin. And in fact, this was when the Philistines were crushing them and they lost the Ark of the Covenant. So they turned to local pagan deities. But that's only. That's only digging the hole you're in a little deeper. Samuel prayed for intervention and got the advice to worship the Lord and get rid of those foreign gods. And Samuel told his friends about it and that's what they did. And it worked. They defeated the Philistines. And Samuel set up a commemorative stone, or as the Bible says, Samuel took a stone and set it between Mispa and Shen and called the name of it Ebenezer, saying thus far has the Lord helped us. The Ebenezer stone, a symbol of God's help. Christians sometimes referred to a cross or the Bible itself as an Ebenezer. A reminder that God loves us and God is helpful and God is here. Not sure whether Dickens had any of this in mind, but it kind of works, doesn't it, Ebenezer? It's God loves us. God is helpful and God is here. That's the end of the book. But then we get the sound of Ebenezer. The sound is like a screech, a villain like the Skeezix, Ebenezer. Sleaziness, greed. And guess what? Although the name was fairly common in the English speaking world in the 17th and 18th and early 19th centuries, it had a great falling post. Dickens. It's like Adolf after World War II, not many kids named Adolf running around in the 50s and 60s. In 1841, the UK census listed almost 5,000 male Ebenezers and 75 female Ebenezers. How would you like to be named Ebenezer as a little girl? It's kind of cute, actually. Ebby today. Well, in 1996, there were seven babies who got that name, Ebenezer. And in 2000 there were three, which is a little strange because Scrooge is a great story of redemption. It has a happy ending. It's a reminder of the joy of Christmas. You'd think that Ebenezer would be a popular name, but that's not what stands out. Scrooge changes, but he doesn't catch up to Tim and Bob. Those are two names that aren't struggling. Those are names in A Christmas Carol too, of course. Tiny Tim, Bob Cratchit there. Those guys are good the whole time. They don't need to be shocked into goodness like Ebenezer. Ebenezer is an old miser's name who eventually comes around like the Grinch. But the bulk of the story is the Grinch is a green, wicked creature and Scrooge as a guy who doesn't want to burn coal because it's too expensive. Well, how that's. Think about that. That's wasting your life too, isn't it? To deprive yourself and the people around you of just a little warmth. Who suffers when Scrooge doesn't pay Bob Cratchit much to live on? Well, Bob and his family. First and foremost, their Christmas goose is going to be small. But who suffers when Scrooge doesn't want to put coal on the fire? Scrooge suffers too. He's not letting himself live. This is not his best self. So here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tell you a little about Dickens at the time that he wrote A Christmas Carol, and we'll hear what it was like for him to write it. Then we'll hear the start of the story because people often see a version of this. But we forget just how good Dickens is at setting up a tale, at giving us characters, how vividly he breathes life into people. He's really astonishingly good at making characters come to life. He's like a movie maker, before there were movies. So Dickens was born in 1812 in Portsmouth. He lived in Chatham for a few years, and when he was 10, he moved to London, where he lived for the next three 38 years. It was a middle class life, but barely. It was a fairly new development for his family and they had a way of blowing it. One of his grandfathers was a domestic servant and the other was an embezzler. His father, John, was a clerk in the navy pay office and he made a pretty good salary but he spent money faster than he could earn it and he mismanaged money as well as his life. And when Dickens was 12, the family had to pull Charles out of school and send him to work in a factory. And John was sent to prison for debt. Things didn't go well for Charles after that. It was a traumatic experience working there. A lifelong wound he sought to heal. And he always had sympathy for the working class and the children who were suffering and the conditions in which they lived. On a more personal note, he seems to have had a kind of antagonism against his mother for this. And some have argued that it affected his relationships with women afterwards. Even after they were able to pull John out of debtors prison, his mother wanted Charles to stay at work in the factory. His father said, no, let's send him back to school. And the mother refused. You can see some seedlings in this story for the man Dickens became. And we'll see this later with the reception of A Christmas Carol, in fact, where he's devastated by the financial outcome of the book. But let's move on, let's move forward. At 15, Dickens left school to be a clerk for a lawyer or a solicitor as it was called. And then he became a reporter covering parliament and the courts. He loved journalism and hated the law. In Parliament he fell in love and was turned down because he was a lousy prospect, which fueled his desire to succeed. He was an actor. And then when he was 21, he transformed his journalism into the fiction that would change his life. He started writing stories and descriptive essays and within months he became the most popular author around. The Pickwick Papers came out. He got a job as an editor of a monthly magazine and he put Oliver Twist in that magazine in serial fashion. It's kind of like those actors like Robert Redford or Orson Welles who want to direct. And the producer says, fine, as long as you're in the movie, you can direct it, star, as long as you agree to be in it. Well, to Dickens it was, you can edit the magazine, but hey, how about serializing a novel for it too? It worked. Huge success. He got married, had the first of his nine surviving children, had a second child. And then he went to that on that Edinburgh tour I told you about. And now we're almost caught up almost at the moment. The genesis point of A Christmas Carol. A few more novels happened in the meantime and more success. A five month tour of America. We skipped over that. He was famous, successful, wealthy. Although there's no more precarious perch than a wealthy son who remembers the bankruptcy and disgrace and debtors prison and that fate of his father. Dickens didn't want to be stingy. He wanted to be big hearted. He wanted to help people. He had a strong social conscience. He hated Parliament for not doing more to help. He hated the law for being stuck in its bizarre ways. It's not like he wanted to retire from society and live a safe life counting his money. But he knew that if he overextended himself, he could face ruin. He had that example burned into his memory. He was about 30 years old when he took that trip to Edinburgh and saw that gravestone of the mealman Scroggy, who Dickens thought was recorded in history as a mean man. And it lit a match in him. He fused it with Christmas. Dickens had always loved Christmas. He remembered the Christmas trees and Christmas pantomimes of his youth. In the Pickwick Papers, his first novel, he wrote about the joys of Christmas. He loved Christmas in London. He loved the spirit of it, what it did to the city, how it transformed people. In 1875, a friend of Dickens named John Forster wrote a biography of Dickens. We're going to be quoting from this later, but there's a passage in the biography that struck me. Dickens wrote Forster a letter and signed it. Let's hope we might enjoy, quote, 50 more Christmases at least in this world, and eternal summers in another. End quote. And so he was signed up to write installments. This is an underrated part of serialization, by the way. Serialization is often blamed for novels being too long or too unruly or too untamed, too verbose, writers are paid by the word or they had to fill the pages. Or maybe they didn't plan it out ahead and were kind of winging it or they changed the ending to suit the public. That's the kind of thing that a critic or a sensitive reader today might notice. And Dickens himself said, oh, how do you get all these characters and all these plots? And how does a juggler keep all these balls in the air? It's hard enough for a novelist to pull off. And if you're trying to do it with a monthly number, as he called it, it's even harder. He said he would concentrate on the general purpose and design. He promised to do that. But because although we criticize these books as if they're between two covers and lumpy and have digressions and peaks and valleys at the wrong time and get confusing and get sensationalistic. Those are all valid criticisms of the serialized novel. And we can attribute a lot of that or all of it to serialization. And. And we'd be right. Serialization made it very difficult to have a unified novel with a consistent tone and characters that don't ramble in and out and ramble on too long and all of that. But what we don't always think about is the effect that serialization had on an author. A James Joyce might disappear for a few years before coming out with Ulysses. In the meantime, he's agonizing over each sentence and each word. He's getting things as right as he can. He's drafting and redrafting. He could finish the end and then go back and change the beginning. We take all that for granted now. Again with an analogy. A band today that's successful might spend a year in the studio even more, going through all the tracks, perfecting them. The Beatles recorded their first album in a single day, one day, all the songs back to back to back. Other bands do something similar when you're because of the cost of the studio. When you're peak Radiohead, great. Take all the time you need. We look forward to hearing the results. But when you're unknown, you might not have that much time in the studio unless things have changed. Maybe people have home studios and do things more cheaply with their laptops. But in any case, follow me through this analogy. When you're an unknown band, you might have to crank things out, but that's okay. You've got energy, you've got spontaneity. You've got songs that you've been working on for years. Songs you things you've got to get off your chest. You'll live with a few infelicities singing the same singing they're coming in a little too early here and there. Or. Or repeating the wrong verse because you're new. You're also. You're free of expectations and criticism. You're just looking forward to making a splash. And then as you mature, those mistakes start to bother you. You want to trend toward perfection. You have a sound, a particular sound in your mind you want to capture. And suddenly you're insisting on spending a year making your album so you can get just what you want down. I know people don't really make albums as much anymore. I'm just a dinosaur, A Christmas dinosaur, though have pity on me. I'm a Christmasaurus. Okay, just to finish this up. Dickens would sign up to serialize a novel and suddenly he's on the hook for a bunch of pages maybe twice a month. And he'd have, sometimes he'd have two novels going at once. So he's peak Dickens. He's famous. He can disappoint. There's a lot at stake. This is like James Joyce writing Ulysses or Radiohead recording Kid A or something. They get the time they need, they can delete and start over. Dickens doesn't have that luxury. He can't take a day off. He's writing and writing and writing and it goes right into print. And then it's done. It's out there. It's available for all to love and admire or hate and disparage. It's impressive. Not as impressive as a Christmasaurus perhaps. But we can't all sit here with our long necks capable of extending down a chimney and our walnut sized brains which make us happy and dumb and giving and our striking red and green reptilian skill. The Christmas saurus. Only Jack Wilson gets to play the part of a Christmasaurus. Sorry, Mr. Dickens. So anyway, Dickens was signed up to write his book. Martin Chuzzlewit. He was making the deadlines for that one and a new idea came into his head. Hey, that guy Scroggy, the mean man. What if he wasn't Ebeneezer Scroggy but Ebenezer Scrooge? What if we make it a Christmas story? A carol perhaps. What if we introduce a few ghosts? And even though Dickens is busy writing Chuzzlewit, he makes this kind of his side project, the one he turns to when he gets a moment because he knows what he's got. He knows how good this is. He opened up the. He unscrewed the top of a bottle and lightning jumped inside. And he quickly screwed that top back on and Lightning in a bottle. People listen to this description from his friend Forster. It A Christmas Carol was the work of such odd moments of leisure as were left him out of the time taken up by two numbers of his Chuzzlewit. And though begun with but the special design of adding something to the Chuzzlewit balance. The I can testify to the accuracy of his own account. His meaning Dickens. Dickens own account of what befell him in its composition with what a strange mastery it seized him for itself. How he wept over it and laughed and wept again and excited himself to an extraordinary degree. And how he walked thinking of it 15 and 20 miles about the black streets of London many and many a night. After all, sober folks had gone to bed. And when it was done, as he told our friend Mr. Felton in America, he let himself loose like a madman. End quote. That is inspiration seizing a genius. Let's hear how the story begins once again. We all know the story. We've seen it in movies. Ghost of Christmas Past, blah, blah, blah. But hearing Dickens prose is, at least for me, terribly exciting. It starts with a winning preface, a note from Dickens to his public. Preface. I have endeavored in this ghostly little book to raise the ghost of an idea which shall not put my readers out of humor with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly and no one wish to lay it. Their faithful friend and servant. C. D December 1843. I love this little preface. Good old CD our faithful friend. Let's hear how the book begins. Stave one. Let me pause there. Stave is a reference to the parts of a carol, the musical movement of a song. Dickens was proud of the musicality of the composition, how it had five parts like a song and a turning point and a rise and fall, and the parts were all in balance together. Conceiving of this and executing it fired his imagination. That's why this isn't Chapter one or Part one. It's Stave one. This is a carol. It's a song. This wasn't a monthly number. This wasn't going to suffer from coming out in chopped up pieces. He could design it all together like a composer creating a song, and it could have its unity and harmony in a way that his serialized novels didn't always get the chance to have. The five parts, as we will see, the five staves are Marley's ghost, then, one for each of the three spirits, past, present and future. And then what he calls the end of it, which is where we see the reformed Scrooge we are reading now from the very beginning, the opening of A Christmas Carol. Stave one. Marley's ghost. Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it, and Scrooge's name was good upon change for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail. Mind, I don't mean to say that I know of my own knowledge what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined myself to regard a coffin nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile, and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat emphatically that Marley was as dead as a doornail. Scrooge knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night in an easterly wind upon his own ramparts than there would be in any other middle aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot. Say, St. Paul's Churchyard, for instance. Literally, to astonish his son's weak mind. Scrooge never painted out old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards above the warehouse door. And Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge and sometimes Marley. But he answered to both names. It was all the same to him. Oh, but he was a tight fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge. A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner, hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out. Generous fire, secret and self contained and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek stiffened his gait, made his eyes red his thin lips blue, and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rhyme was on his head and on his eyebrows and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him. He iced his office in the dog days and didn't thought one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he. No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often came down handsomely, and Scrooge never did. Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say with gladsome looks, my dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me? No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle. No children asked him what it was o'. Clock. No man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him, and when they saw him coming on, would lug their owners into doorways and up courts, and then would wag their tails as though they said, no eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master. But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance was what the knowing ones called nuts to Scrooge. Once upon a time, of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve, old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather, foggy withal, and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. It had not been light all day, and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without that, although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by and was brewing on a large scale. The door of Scrooge's counting house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who, in a dismal little cell beyond a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal, but he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room. And so, surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part, wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter and tried to warm himself at the candle, in which effort, not being a man of strong imagination, he failed. A Merry Christmas, Uncle. God save you. Cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. Bah. Said Scrooge. Humbug. He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's that he was all in a glow. His face was ruddy and handsome, his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again. Christmas a humbug, Uncle, Said Scrooge's nephew. You don't mean that. I am sure I do, said Scrooge. Merry Christmas. What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough. Come then, returned the nephew gaily. What right have you to be dismal? What right have you to be morose? You're rich enough. Scrooge, having no better answer, ready on the spur of the moment, said bah again, and followed it up with Humbug. Don't be cross, uncle, said the nephew. What else can I be, returned the uncle, when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas. Out upon. Merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money? A time for finding yourself a year older but not an hour richer? A time for balancing your books and having every item in them through a round dozen of months presented dead against you. If I could work my will, said Scrooge indignantly, every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he should. Uncle. Pleaded the nephew. Nephew. Returned the uncle sternly, Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine. Keep it? Repeated Scrooge's nephew, but you don't keep it. Let me leave it alone then, said Scrooge. Much good may it do you, much good it has ever done you. There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say, returned the nephew, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time when it has come round, apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that as a good time. A kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time, the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, and I believe that it has done me good and will do me good, and I say God bless it. The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded. Becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire and extinguished the last frail spark forever. Let me hear another sound from you, said Scrooge, and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. You're quite a powerful speaker, sir, he added, turning to his nephew. I wonder you don't go into Parliament. Don't be angry, Uncle. Come, dine with us tomorrow. Scrooge said that he would see him. Yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression and said that he would see him in that extremity first. But why? Cried Scrooge's nephew. Why? Why did you get married? Said Scrooge. Because I fell in love. Because you fell in love, Growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas. Good afternoon. Nay, Uncle. But you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now? Good afternoon, said Scrooge. I want nothing from you. I ask nothing of you. Why cannot we be friends? Good afternoon, said Scrooge. I am sorry with all my heart to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel to which I have been a party, but I have made the trial an homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last. So, a merry Christmas, Uncle. Good afternoon, said Scrooge. And a happy New Year. Good afternoon, said Scrooge. His nephew left the room without an angry word. Notwithstanding, he stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than Scrooge, for he returned them cordially. There's another fellow, muttered Scrooge, who overheard him. My clerk, with 15 shillings a week and a wife and family talking about a Merry Christmas. I'll retire to bedlam. This lunatic, in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood with their hats off in Scrooge's office. They had books and papers in their hands and bowed to him. Scrooge And Marley's, I believe, said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley? Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years, Scrooge replied. He died seven years ago this very night. We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner, said the gentleman, presenting his credentials. It certainly was, for they had been two kindred spirits at the ominous word liberality. Scrooge frowned and shook his head and handed the credentials back. At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge, said the gentleman, taking up a pen, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries. Hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir. Are there no prisons? Asked Scrooge. Plenty of prisons, said the gentleman, laying down the pen again. And the union workhouses? Demanded Scrooge. Are they still in operation? They are still, returned the gentleman. I wish I could say they were not. The treadmill and the poor law are in full vigor, then, Said Scrooge. Both very busy, sir. Oh, I was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course, said Scrooge. I'm very glad to hear it. Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, returned the gentleman, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. We choose this time because it is a time of all others, when want is keenly felt and abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for? Nothing, Scrooge replied. You wish to be anonymous? I wish to be left alone, said Scrooge. Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned. They cost enough, and those who are badly off must go there. Many can't go there, and many would rather die. If they would rather die, said Scrooge, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population besides. Excuse me, I don't know that. But you might know it, observed the gentleman. It's not my business, Scrooge returned. It's enough for a man to understand his own business and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentleman withdrew Scrooge resumed his labors with an improved opinion of himself. Hmm, there's so much there to love. The great description of Scrooge, the energy of seeing him in these interactions, the hints that there will be ghosts here and that that's okay. Hamlet's father was a ghost. And we all respect Shakespeare and this part at the end. If they would rather die, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population. This tapped into a great debate at the time with Darwin and a general belief in progress. On the one hand, things getting better, progress being made, evolution improving things, and Thomas Malthus on the other. Malthus believed that improvements would lead to a better life, which would in turn lead to population growth, which would lead to a fall in living standards. He thought population multiplied geometrically and food only arithmetically. So a prosperous society would end up with more mouths to feed than it could handle. His books came out around 1800, 1810, 1820. These were the. These were the thoughts in the air when Dickens was being dragged off to the workhouse himself. One of those mouths that needed feeding. And you can see where someone like Scrooge would have had a good 20 years or so of letting that belief in population growth set in. Aren't I taxed already? Aren't there institutions? Don't I have my own concerns to worry about? And Dickens is saying, no, Scrooge, you don't. No, you don't. We don't have that luxury. The poverty is all around us. The laws are insufficient. We can't just say, well, that's what Parliament is for. Because Parliament is filled with corruption and ineptitude. It's up to us. Okay, let's take one last break and when we come back, we'll talk about the reception of A Christmas Carol and the surprising reaction that Dickens had to the public's response.
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Kraft Mac and Cheese is the best thing ever. It's even better than pop music. You look just as natural enjoying us at age 13 as you do 55. Kraft Mac and Cheese. Best thing ever. So the book comes out and in some ways it's a huge success. It still is, right? I mean, we know Oliver Twist and David Copperfield and Great Expectations in Bleak House. And Dickens is admired for these and his other novels, too. A Tale of Two Cities and so on. But A Christmas Carol is different. It's transcendent. A Christmas Carol is a height very few authors ever reach. And yet when it came out, and even though it was successful, Dickens was miserable. About the publication and the aftermath, Forster tells us the story of the publication day. Dickens was disappointed. It was a huge success. The first edition of 6,000 copies sold out on the first day. Future editions were quickly commissioned. Everyone loved the story. Critics, readers, everyone. And yet Dickens was miserable. Such a night as I have passed, he wrote to Forster, talking about his misery. The accounts for A Christmas Carol had come in. He had only made 230 pounds. He had set his heart and soul on a thousand pounds from the book. Now he couldn't pay the year's bills. He was full of intolerable anxiety and disappointment. The problem seems to have been an issue with his publishers and the pricing. Somehow they priced it wrong. Or Dickens's share had been negotiated wrong or something. He didn't make enough. Not what he expected. And so it was a disappointment. There's something a little ironic here, isn't it? Isn't there? Isn't it a little Scrooge like to be measuring the success of this book based on money alone. But Dickens was like a business, a brand, an enterprise. He had children and expenses and charities and all kinds of need for money. He wasn't a miser. He made a lot to spend a lot. There's a difference there. But others urged him to come to his senses. How can you be disappointed in this book? Blessings on your kind heart. A friend wrote to him. You should be happy yourself, for you may be sure you have done more good by this little publication, fostered more kindly feelings and prompted more positive acts of beneficence than can be traced to all the pulpits and confessionals in Christendom since last year's Christmas. Again, these are quotes from Forster and his 1875 biography of Dickens. Thackeray, the novelist, wrote to Dickens about A Christmas Carol as well. Who can listen to objections regarding such a book as this? He wrote, it seems to me, a national benefit. And to every man or woman who reads it, a personal kindness. What a great letter to write to a fellow novelist. Every man or woman who reads it, it's personal kindness. It's like you wrote this just for them. It's a national benefit. £230. A thousand pounds. Whatever, dude, you did it. Forster says, quote, such Praise expressed what men of genius felt and said. But the small volume had other tributes less usual and not less genuine. These poured upon its author daily all through that Christmas time. Letters from complete strangers to him, which I remember reading with a wonder of pleasure, not literary at all, but of the simplest domestic kind, of which the General Burdon was to tell him, amid many confidences about their homes, how the carol had come to be read aloud there and was to be kept upon a little shelf by itself and was to do them all no end of good. Anything more to be said of it will not add much to this. End quote. I just got chills reading that. Imagine Dickens in his misery, glad that it sold, frustrated by the money that wasn't coming in and yet getting this flood of letters from people who had read A Christmas Carol aloud in their family and were going to keep the book on a little shelf by itself. Mmm, Mr. Dickens. Back to Forster. There was indeed nobody that had not some interest in the message of the Christmas Carol. It told the selfish man to rid himself of selfishness, the just man to make himself generous, and the good natured man to enlarge the sphere of his good nature. Its cheery voice of faith and hope, ringing from one end of the island to the other, carried pleasant warning alike to all that if the duties of Christmas were wanting, no good could come of its outward observances. That it must shine upon the cold hearth and warm it and into the sorrowful heart and comfort it. That it must be kindness, benevolence, charity, mercy and forbearance, or its plum pudding would turn to bile and its roast beef be indigestible. Nor could any man have said it with the same appropriateness as Dickens. What was marked in him to the last was manifest now. He had identified himself with Christmas fancies. Its life and spirits, its humor and riotous abundance of right belonged to him. Its imaginations as well as kindly thoughts were his. And its privilege to light up with some sort of comfort the squalidest places he had made his own. Christmas Day was not more social or welcome. New Year's Day not more new. Twelfth Night not more full of characters. The duty of diffusing enjoyment had never been taught by a more abundant, mirthful, thoughtful, ever seasonable writer. End quote. I'm going to keep going here. Forster talks about the other Christmas books that Dickens wrote and he gets at something that really interests me the way that some authors. Can I make one more musical analogy? This is to Nirvana. Dave Grohl talking about Kurt Cobain and the songs that he wrote. And Dave Grohl, who of course turned out to be a songwriter himself we see in the Foo Fighters. But in Nirvana, he was the drummer playing on Cobain's songs. And looking back, he said Kurt's songs are like nursery rhymes. And he meant this as a compliment. He was quick to add that it's like Bob Dylan writing songs that sound like they're a hundred years old. Songs that sound like classics or standards. I watched the Sound of Music the other night. Another guilty pleasure. Edelweiss is like this. You think that must have been around forever. It wasn't. It was written by Rodgers and Hammerstein. But it sounds like it's folk music. Just like folktales, the simple, even the primitive stories, time tested stories that have been told and retold. Like songs that have been said, sung and re sung until they become as smooth as those rocks at the start of tourist caves. Timeless and yet smooth. Those rocks at the start of tourist caves. I mean the ones that visitors are encouraged to lay their hand on as they pass by. And they've turned a chunk of granite into something that feels softer than marble butter. Like rocks. A rock you could almost imagine wearing like a pair of socks. Clothing is like this too. An old flannel shirt, smooth and worn, elemental, natural and organic. That's what A Christmas Carol is like. That's what the story is like with these three ghosts. Four ghosts, of course, counting Marley. But three ghosts. Past, present, future. The story of it, just the symmetry of it, the perfection of it. The timelessness. Here's Forster. Something also is to be said of the spirit of the book and of the others that followed it, which will not anticipate special allusions to be made hereafter. No one was more intensely fond than Dickens of old nursery tales. Many had a secret delight in feeling that he was here only giving them a higher form. The social and manly virtues he desired to teach were to him not less. The charm of the ghost, the goblin and the fairy fancies of his childhood, however rudely set forth in those earlier days. What now were to be conquered were the more formidable dragons and giants which had their places at our own hearths. And the weapons to be used were of a finer than the icebrook's temper with brave and strong restraints. What is evil in ourselves was to be subdued with warm and gentle sympathies. What is bad or unreclaimed in others was to be redeemed. The beauty was to embrace the beast as in the divinest of all Those fables. The star was to rise out of the ashes, as in our much loved Cinderella, and we were to play the Valentine with our wilder brothers and bring them back with brotherly care to civilization and happiness. Nor is it to be doubted, I think, that in the largest sense of benefit, great public and private service was done positive, earnest, practical good, by the extraordinary popularity and nearly universal acceptance which attended these little holiday volumes. They carried to countless firesides with new enjoyment of the season, better apprehension of its claims and obligations. They mingled grave with glad thoughts, much to the advantage of both. What seemed almost too remote to meddle with, they brought within reach of charities, and what was near, they touched with a dearer tenderness. They comforted the generous, rebuked the sordid cured folly by kindly ridicule and comic humor, and saying to their readers, thus you have done. But it were better. Thus may for some have realized the philosopher's famous experience, and by a single fortunate thought revised the whole manner of a life. Criticism here is a second rate thing, and the reader may be spared such discoveries as it might have made in regard to the Christmas Carol. End quote. And here's how the story ends. The very ending of A Christmas Carol. Once again we can hear Dickens. You know, you've probably seen this a million times. You've seen Scrooge watching Tiny Tim saying, God bless us, everyone. And a lot of productions have Scrooge there in the room celebrating Christmas dinner with the family. But Dickens ends it at the office with Bob Cratchit with a nice twist. Here's how it ends. But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only be there first and catch Bob Cratchit coming late. That was the thing he had set his heart upon. And he did it. Yes, he did. The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter past. No Bob. He was full 18 minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open that he might see him come into the tank. His hat was off before he opened the door. His comforter too. He was on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen as if he were trying to overtake. Nine o'. Clock. Hello. Growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it. What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? I am very sorry, sir, said Bob. I am behind my time. You are, Repeated Scrooge. Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sir, if you please. It's only once a year, sir, pleaded Bob. Appearing from the tank. It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir. Now I'll tell you what, my friend, said Scrooge. I'm not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore he continued leaping from his stool and giving Bob such a dig in the waistcoat that he staggered back into the tank again. And therefore I am about to raise your salary. Bob trembled and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him and calling to the people in the court for help and a straight waistcoat. A merry Christmas, Bob, said Scrooge with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. A merrier Christmas, Bob. Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year. I'll raise your salary and endeavor to assist your struggling family. And we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop. Bob, make up the fires and buy another coal scuttle before you dot another I, Bob Cratchit. Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more, and to tiny timing. Who did not die. He was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh and little heeded them. For he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset. And knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. He had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the total abstinence principle ever afterwards. And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us and all of us. And so, as Tiny Tim observed. God bless us, everyone. Look at that. Look at the character of Scrooge. It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well. Everything essential comes from within. Nothing is from the majesty of God or the approval of others. He knew how to keep Christmas well. He knew he knew how to keep Christmas well. It's a challenge to all of us. It's not something we should wait around for others to do. We should keep Christmas well. And I suppose I can extend that to non Christmas too. Let's universalize it. Whatever our traditions, whatever our beliefs, if it's Christmas that raises that bar, then great. But it could be another holiday. It could be family. It could be love for our sweet partners in life. It could be nostalgia and sentiment. It could be empathy or compassion. It could be charity. It could be decency. It could be kindness. It could be hope. Whatever that is in us that is good or potentially good, we should keep it well. When we die, let our graves not say mean man. Let people say there was a person who kept good things well. It's not the cool thing to do. It's not ironic. It can look hopelessly naive. It can seem like there's no point. We can look ridiculous running around like fools, believing in goodness, trying to be good, trying to foster good, trying to promote good, trying to help. Who cares? Let the cynics laugh at our attitude. If they wish, our hearts will be laughing too. And that is everything. Okay, there we go. Thank you so much for joining me today. I was very glad to have you here. Ebenezer Scrooge and Charles Dickens. What a treat that has been. Just like this year has been a treat. I'm dusting off these old cobwebs that have circumscribed my heart, people. I'm in a little cave down here toiling away. More Cratchit than Scrooge, frankly. But that doesn't mean I can't transform myself in some positive way. I hope this holiday season you find a way to transform yourself to. Unless you don't need to, because I suspect that many of you really don't based on your emails. To me, you seem like the best people in the world already. And here I am, bah humbugging my way through the year. Please do forgive me for those lapses. And let's do our best to turn the corner for next year when we will be filled with grace and light. I'm Jack Wilson. Thank you for listening and we'll see you next time. Foreign.
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You might be curious what it takes from equipment to general know how to make a podcast like this come to life. Maybe you're interested in making your own series as your New Year's resolution. Which is why you should check out my show, Podcast Perspectives. The award winning series hosted by me, Jeff Umbro and produced by the Poglomerate. Recently named the best podcast production and marketing agency by PR Daily. Podcast Perspectives explores the audio industry through conversations with the experts behind the podcasts you love from The Washington Post, iHeart, Pushkin, Lemonada and beyond. We discuss everything from how to produce the best series to how to monetize and grow your shows to reach more audiences. If you're looking for a place to start, check out our recent Podcast Predictions episode where we bring on podcast leaders like Lemonada's Jessica Cordova, Kramer, Pushkin's Greta Cohn, Bumper's Dan Misner, NHPR's Rebecca Lavoy, and NASA's Katie Konance to share inspiring takeaways for 2026. Podcast Perspectives is designed to be approachable and actionable for anyone, regardless of podcasting experience, so follow Podcast Perspectives with Jeff Umbro on your favorite podcast app today.
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Why have three Gilmore Girls in a small town resonated with generations of fans? And what does a TV series that ended nearly two decades ago reveal about who we want to be? Generation Gilmore Girls is a brand new three part podcast series that looks for answers where it all began in Connecticut. Hosted by me, Chloe Nguyen and produced by Connecticut Public, the same award winning NPR and PBS member station behind the chart topping podcast Generation Barney. This series is about the TV we love and how it shapes us. We'll take you inside the creation of Gilmore Girls, why we keep revisiting it, and the impact the show has had on its home state. Whether you're a longtime fan or new to the show, this podcast offers fresh insights and heartfelt nostalgia. Follow Generation Gilmore Girls on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you're listening now. Trust me, it's worth the trip back to Stars Hollow.