On Hegel, History, and Reading as if for Life:Response Nicholas Dames (bio) Of course, if water boils in a pot, steam comes out of the pot and also pictured steam comes out of the pictured pot. But what if one insisted on saying that there must also be something boiling in the picture of the pot? Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations It is no less than an origin myth for literary scholars: the image of David Copperfield, alone with his dead father's book collection, finding solace from cruelty and neglect in the prolonged, immersive reading of fiction. When I think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbourhood, every stone in the church, and every foot of the churchyard, had some association of its own, in my mind, connected with these books, and stood for some locality made famous in them. (56) This moment's recurrent presence in criticism can be ascribed to its power to summon up memories of childhood fantasy and the barrier books can build between a vulnerable self and the hostile world. D. A. Miller, for instance, wrote of the subject of this scene as "David himself, cognate and first cognition of myself" (193). Martha Nussbaum took from the passage a title for an essay, "Reading for Life," which begins with a prolonged reading of "this wonderful passage (which is even more wonderful read in full)" (230). David's bouts of solitary reading offer at least one category of bookish selves—scholars—with precisely the kind of foundational self-image that, in other contexts, comes in for critique. It is useless to cite the passage and pretend that it fails to move us—or move me, at least—to the kind of poignant self-regard that Miller openly, and Nussbaum covertly, celebrate. But it is worth asking with what kind of reading, exactly, the passage asks us to identify. Not [End Page 437] necessarily the objects of David's immersion—the "Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones" and the rest that make up David's small patrimony—but the ontology of reading fiction that the passage so successfully evokes (55). A clue might be furnished us by Nussbaum's peculiar omission of the "as if" in Charles Dickens's well-known phrase "reading as if for life." The wrinkle, or slight gap, opened up by those two words suggest at least some distance, however small, between David and the motives that drive him to read—between him, that is, and the "life" that his books either hold off or provide. The oddity of that "as if" hovers over the entire passage, which is, after all, composed of a series of virtual encounters: between David-the-narrator and David-the-young-reader; between young David and his perceptual surround, the boys at play in the churchyard; between David's neighborhood and the imaginary locales for which they stand; and, of course, between David and the fiction he reads. The process of identification, of saying "that, there, is also this here," is pervasive but also necessarily imperfect, only "as if" it is complete. The lure of identifying with David, that is, risks masking the only partially possible identifications available to him in his reading. Nussbaum's elision of Dickens's "as if" is taken up, as it were, by the papers delivered at the 2010 NAVSA by Rae Greiner, Jonathan Farina, and John Plotz, whose separate investigations of Victorian "virtuality" are unusually attentive to precisely the imperfections or hesitations involved in virtual thinking. In Farina's case the link is explicit: his study of the "as if" locution in Victorian fictional prose makes clear the stakes involved in ignoring this crucial, but easily overlooked, bridge between different orders of representation. Greiner and Plotz, however, are equally invested in exploring an ontology of fiction where less than full immersion is the norm, and a form of identification that is less than complete. What is striking about this endeavor is how it cuts against a strong, if rarely articulated...