I've read, more than once, that our conception and method of celebrating Christmas is due, in very large part, to the writing of Charles Dickens.
If this slim volume is any indication than our Christmases should be filled with the wonders and joys of childhood, alongside the grim spiritual specters that haunt our nightmares. Christmas would be full of maudlin sentimentality along with ruthless biting social commentary.
It would be filled with caricatures of humanity that somehow are true and real enough that we care for them body and soul.
The noble, good, and just would be rewarded while the evil, backstabbing, and selfish would be punished... Except, as in life, those things just don't always happen. Instead, at times, the good suffer and the evil are rewarded.
If Charles Dickens created the template for our Christmases they would be filled with loving families, unrelenting happiness and childhood magic. While alongside that would be the crushing pain, hurt, and disappointments of life.
And so this book which, in its brevity, mirrors our brief time on earth and our briefer moments of holiday happiness, does give us Christmas in all its complex permutations.
It's not always a Merry Christmas, but it's truly evocative and moving.