Bleak House is just the most astounding piece of work. There's

Hear, O children of wisdom, the voice of Simon Callow: “Bleak House is just the most astounding piece of work. There’s huge, visionary poetry in it.” In this declaration, he does not speak lightly. He beholds in Dickens’s novel something more than narrative, more than characters and plot. He perceives a force of vision, a grandeur of language, a storm of imagery so powerful that it transcends the ordinary boundaries of prose. In Bleak House, Callow sees not only storytelling but poetry—that ancient fire that lifts mere words into revelation.

The origin of this insight lies in Dickens’s mastery. He wrote in prose, yet his prose moves with the rhythms, the intensity, and the imagery of verse. In Bleak House, the fog of London becomes more than weather—it is a living presence, a metaphor for corruption, confusion, and decay. The Chancery Court, with its endless cases, becomes a symbol as mighty as any poem, a vision of human futility and injustice. Dickens did not versify, but he achieved the essence of poetry: the transformation of reality into vision, of detail into myth. This is what Callow names “huge, visionary poetry.”

Consider the example of Homer, whose epics were sung in verse, yet whose power lay not in rhyme but in vision: the wrath of Achilles, the wanderings of Odysseus, the gods moving among men. Dickens, though in prose, captured a similar epic breadth. His Bleak House does not simply describe a lawsuit or a city; it places human frailty in a vast tapestry, where every character becomes part of a cosmic struggle between justice and injustice, light and shadow. This is why Callow sees poetry—because Dickens wrote prose that thundered like an epic.

Let us also recall that Dickens was not only a writer but a performer of his works. His public readings were electrifying; audiences wept and trembled as he delivered passages aloud. Here lies another truth: his prose was written with the cadence of the spoken word, meant to be heard as much as read. In this way, Bleak House carries the breath of poetry, for poetry, above all, is an art of voice, rhythm, and performance. Callow, himself an actor, perceives this with particular clarity.

Yet Bleak House is also prophetic. Its visionary poetry lies in its moral clarity, its relentless exposure of systemic injustice. Dickens was no idle dreamer; he wielded words as weapons against apathy. Like the prophets of Israel, who clothed their rebukes in poetic fire, Dickens clothed his outrage in metaphors and images that could not be ignored. The fog, the endless legal case, the decay of society—these were not mere descriptions, but visions meant to awaken a sleeping people. Callow recognizes this prophetic strain and calls it astounding.

The lesson for us is plain: poetry does not dwell only in verse. It can inhabit prose, drama, even history, wherever vision lifts words beyond the literal. To read deeply is to look for this poetic vision—to ask not only, “What is being said?” but “What does this reveal? What truth beyond the surface burns within these words?” For it is this vision that makes literature endure across centuries.

In practice, let us read with awakened eyes. When you open a book—whether novel, poem, or play—do not seek entertainment alone. Seek the poetry hidden within: the metaphors that reveal the soul of a time, the rhythms that echo human breath, the visions that expose injustice or kindle hope. And when you write, let your words strive not only to tell but to reveal, not only to describe but to sing. For it is vision, not ornament, that transforms prose into poetry.

Thus Callow’s teaching endures: Bleak House is astounding not because it is long or intricate, but because it carries within it “huge, visionary poetry.” It reminds us that literature’s highest calling is not to amuse but to illuminate. Let us, then, seek and create works that rise above description, that burn with vision, and that speak not only to the mind but also to the soul.