Young Romantics by Daisy Hay

Meanwhile, the goings-on at Diodati were a fertile topic for gossip and speculation. The local hotelier did a brisk trade in sailing trips on the lake during which shocked English visitors could inspect the washing drying outside Byron's villa for evidence of female inhabitants--telescopes were thoughtfully included in the ticket price.

-Young Romantics

I'd fully intended to read Young Romantics some time ago--in April, even, for National Poetry Month. I checked it out of the library after reading of Age of Wonder and realizing that, despite my love of Keats, my knowledge of poetry from that era was still pretty lacking. But then I discovered Inspector Lynley, and I wanted to read Blue Latitudes while Age of Wonder was still fresh in my mind...and well, here we are. Better late than never.

I picked out Young Romantics because I thought it would give me a nice overview of Shelley, Byron, and Keats and further my understanding of the relationships they had with one another and with others in their circle. I discovered as I began to read, though, that Daisy Hay's focus was clearly on Shelley and Leigh Hunt, the poet and critic.* If I'd read the book jacket a bit more carefully, I would have already known this, but it turned out to be fine. I missed Keats, who was absent for long sections of the book, but I did already read a comprehensive account of his life. Byron figured somewhat more prominently. He also came off like a big ole jerk.

I had kind of a sketchy idea of Byron as a ladies' (and gents', to be fair) man; someone talented and charismatic and a bit of a rogue. I did not, however, know that he spent some time fumbling toward ecstasy with his own half-sister. Nor was I aware of his cruel streak--the way he treated Claire Clairmont (Mary Shelley's stepsister), the mother of his illegitimate child, was pretty terrible. 

And while Shelley comes off better than Byron, he still could be remarkably callous, especially in his treatment of women. I did enjoy getting to learn more about his relationship with Mary, which had more scandalous origins than I had realized, and I liked Mary quite a lot in general. It was because of that, I think, that I still found the account of Shelley's death quite moving, even though I hadn't particularly warmed to him. It was just so sudden, and so senseless, and he was just so young.

It can be difficult to learn about artists--once you've discovered something negative about someone, be it merely unpleasant or truly awful, it can be hard to divorce that from your appreciation of an artist's work. Perhaps I'm judging Byron unfairly, even.For the moment, I will say that Young Romantics has definitely influenced my opinion of him as a person, but I can't deny that he wrote beautifully.  As for Shelley, I now know more of his life than I do of his works, so I shall have to remedy that at some point in the future. Neither seems likely to replace Keats as my favorite Romantic poet--and not just because Keats seems by far the pleasantest of the bunch (though it doesn't hurt).

I feel as though I'm giving short shrift to the women in the book, which is unfortunate. The treatment of Mary Shelley and Claire Claremont, in particular, is a great credit to Daisy Hay. I feel as though I got a true sense of the place of these women in the literary circle of their day--they often weren't considered equals of the poets whose company they kept, but they certainly had their smarts and a fair degree of influence on the men. I don't know that I ever would have thought to explore the further works of Mary Shelley before, but I have to say I'm now intrigued. Much like Age of Wonder, I have a feeling Young Romantics will be leading me to more books before long.

Up next: Already finished Coraline, so I just need to come back to write it up.

*Hay mentions in passing that Hunt was the basis for the character of Harold Skimpole in Bleak House. It makes so much sense--oh, that elderly child.

Poem: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John William Waterhouse

April is National Poetry Month and, aside from reading the Keats bio, I think I've been rather remiss in not celebrating it. So, a bit belatedly, I thought I'd try to post a few poems over the rest of the month. First up: hope you're not sick of Keats. (I'm not. Obviously.) I just love the rhythm of this poem - the fourth line hits you every time.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci*

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake
And no birds sing.

And because listening to poetry is so lovely, also this: Ben Whishaw reading "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." (YouTube)

*There are two versions - I prefer this one, written in 1819, when Keats was 24. Amazing.

Keats by Andrew Motion

'The fire is at its last click,' [Keats writes], '- I am sitting with my back to it with one foot rather askew upon the rug and the other with the heel a little elevated from the carpet.' He then adds, 'Could I see the same thing done of any great Man long since dead it would be a great delight: as to know in what position Shakespeare sat when he began "To be or not to be" - such thing[s] become interesting from a distance of time or place.'

-Keats

As I mentioned in my review of Bright Star, I'm no lifelong fan of John Keats. Prior to this year, I think I could have only summoned up two pieces of information about him: 1) British 2) Odes. Far from exhaustive, I'm sure you'll agree.

Bright Star left me curious, though, and so I've spent over a month (off and on) in Keats's company, thanks to Andrew Motion's comprehensive biography. I'm now stuffed to the gills with Keats knowledge. I know the names of his family members and friends and I know the titles of his works - and snippets of some of them*. I know about his love of Shakespeare and his love of claret. I could give you a rough but pretty accurate account of his life and death. Most of this information will fade from my memory in due time, of course, but right now I'm enjoying my temporary expertise.

I feel confident that I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine.

Motion does an excellent job of presenting a huge amount of information and analysis in a pretty clear manner**, but unsurprisingly it's Keats's words that really stick with the reader. As I read, I jotted down page numbers on my bookmark, keeping track of particularly lively or interesting passages. We are fortunate that Keats wrote reams of letters, and Motion is skilled in using them to give a real sense of Keats as a person: passionate, flawed, and gifted. Motion mentions a story in which Keats "had recently come across a butcher's boy tormenting a kitten in the street, and had fought and beaten him." Not how I would have imagined him, and I like him the more for it.

Ask yourself my love whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in a Letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it - make it as rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me - write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.

Bright Star focused on the relationship between Keats and Fanny Brawne, but since he only knew her in the last few years of his life, Fanny doesn't make a proper appearance until several hundred pages into Keats. Their tragic love story was one of the things that most motivated me to read this biography (in addition to my desire to end my appalling ignorance about Keats in general), so I did find some of the earlier chapters to be a bit drier. Keats more than makes up for it once he's met Fanny. He fights tooth and nail against being sucked up in love, having so often mocked the swooning couples around him. Look at the passage above again for a pretty good example of his feelings - loving her, yet resentful at the power love had over him. He'd struggle with it for the rest of his life.

'Where is Keats now?' Shelley asked. 'I am anxiously expecting him in Italy where I shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I consider his a most valuable life & am deeply interested in his safety. I intend to be the physician both to his body & his soul, to keep the one warm & to teach the other Greek and Spanish. I am aware indeed in part that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me and this is an additional motive & will be an added pleasure.'

The problem with a biography, of course, is that by the time you've reached the end of the book you've often grown quite attached to its subject. Even knowing that Keats's death was inevitable - that even if he had lived a long and happy life, he still would have been long dead - I found the account of his final months in Rome to be so bleak. He was lucky to have a devoted friend - Joseph Severn, who was eventually buried beside him - but he was in agony for so long, and he was so far from all he knew and the one he loved best.

I was on the train the other day carrying Keats, and a woman remarked upon it. We had a brief conversation as she disembarked. "What a tragedy," she said. And it was. There's nothing to be done for it now, of course. We can't go back and buy his books so that he wouldn't be penniless, to alert him to the money he was entitled to that was tied up in Chancery, to tell his doctors that bleeding him is only counterproductive. We can only read his work, and love it, and perhaps be inspired by it. He thought his name would quickly fade from history. Perhaps we can take some small consolation in knowing that he would have been proud to learn that his poetry has endured over the course of so many years.

Up next: Something lighter was called for, clearly. I'm trying out G.K. Chesterton, The Club of Queer Trades.

*One of my new favorites is "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." I thought, of course, of The Beldam from Neil Gaiman's Coraline (the film, at least, as I still need to read the book). It's always exciting to make connections, thus I particularly liked the stanza that reads:

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

There was so much history in that story that I wasn't at all aware of - Gaiman's pale ghost children didn't come out of nowhere.

**There are a heckuva lot of people to keep track of, though. There's also a certain amount of assumed knowledge - I wouldn't have known of Thomas Chatterton if I hadn't looked him up after reading his name in Underground London. Chatterton comes up a lot in Keats, and he's never given an introduction. I suppose people who read dense biographies of poets generally have more background knowledge in poetry than I do.

Adaptation: Lost in Austen

Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice was published in 1813 and, almost 200 years later, readers are still invested in the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Earlier this summer, I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a bloody but amusing spin on the classic story. Now the Brits bring us the miniseries Lost in Austen, in which a modern woman walks through a portal straight into Elizabeth Bennet's home of Longbourne.

The woman is Londoner Amanda Price (Jemima Rooper), who loves nothing more than curl up at the end of the day with her copy of Pride and Prejudice. She has a boyfriend...but he's no Darcy. Then, one day, she finds Elizabeth Bennet (Gemma Arterton) in her bathroom. As you do.

Elizabeth, intrepid gal that she is, has discovered the portal between her home and Amanda's (the story doesn't try to explain how this could be, so don't worry too much about it). Lizzie is curious to explore the modern world, so she manages to trick Amanda into switching places. Despite Amanda's love for Pride and Prejudice, she quickly realizes that Lizzie needs to return in order to meet Mr. Darcy. In the meantime, Amanda tries to muddle through the best she can, but the story as we know it derails quite early.

I am quite the fan of Pride and Prejudice, and even I was rolling my eyes a bit at the beginning of the miniseries. I was wondering if the show was going to be able to rise above the level of mediocre fan fiction. Then, something interesting started to happen. I realized that Amanda's presence in the story wasn't going to result in a simple substitution of her for Elizabeth. Instead, despite her best efforts, she manages to upset all of the novel's storylines, most notably the courtship of Bingley and Jane Bennet. The characters start doing things they are not supposed to do, to Amanda's increasing frustration.

It was almost as though the characters suddenly had free will. Now, bear with me here, because obviously I realize that they're just being imagined by another author. But because they began to make choices that I, who knows the story backwards and forwards, could not anticipate, it was as though they became more realistic. For example: for the first time in recent memory, I was angry with Darcy when he firmly guided Bingley away from his pursuit of Jane. Why? Because it seemed like he had a choice this time, and yet he still held fast to the same pigheaded idea. (By the way, fans who think that Bingley never held Darcy accountable for his prejudiced advice should watch the miniseries just for the opportunity to see that redressed.)

In case I haven't made it clear, I imagine that Lost in Austen will really only be enjoyable to confirmed Pride and Prejudice fans, and even they might find it a bit silly. However, it does let you see some of the characters in a new light, particularly Bingley and Wickham. Plus there's this:

I'm reminded of the old trope that a picture is worth a thousand words, and perhaps I only needed to post this image of Elliot Cowan* as Mr. Darcy. Incidentally, gentle reader, this serves a reminder that, if you should ever find yourself in the company of both Mr. Darcy and a pond, it is perfectly fine to suggest that it seems like a jolly good time for him to take a swim.

Darcy has become a bit of an iconic role, hasn't it? Interestingly, there are plans to make Lost in Austen into an American feature-length film, which would entail casting yet another Darcy. Quite a career boost for some lucky young actor. (Cowan is currently playing Stanley Kowalski opposite Rachel Weisz in a West End production of A Streetcar Named Desire. Talk about iconic.)

*I have to note that, although it may not be readily apparent in the pictures I've posted, Cowan bears an often uncanny resemblance to Heath Ledger. I actually found it distracting while watching.

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

"One more word. You look as if you thought it tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. Nay, I if I would, cannot cleanse you from it. But I would not, if I could. I have never loved any woman before: my life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love, and will love. But do not be afraid of too much expression on my part."

-North and South

I hope it does not spoil things to reveal that the preceding passage comes at the end of a botched proposal of marriage. If you're not familiar with the story of North and South*, I'm not sure how to better describe it except Pride and Prejudice (with its own famous trainwreck of a proposal) by way of Dickens. Now, Gaskell's prose is not as lively as Austen's, nor as rich as that of Dickens. (I don't want to oversell it.) But the comparison is inevitable: North and South could just as easily be entitled Pride and Prejudice: Industrial Edition.

Margaret Hale is representing the South. She's from the countryside, and unexpectedly finds herself relocating to the factory town of Milton after her father, a curate, suffers a crisis of faith. Milton is smoky, loud, and populated with a very different sort of people than Margaret is used to (and not just because of their delightful accents). Then she meets Mr. Thornton.

Mr. Thornton (representing the North, in case that was unclear) is the wealthy and well-respected proprietor of a local cotton factory. He and Margaret clash early and often. Margaret, still narrow-minded in her views of trade, does not consider him to be a gentleman. And Mr. Thornton thinks her far too (wait for it) proud. But, interestingly, the bulk of their argument revolves around labor issues. Okay, maybe that doesn't sound interesting. But the fact that their issues revolve around a matter of substance is what puts North and South apart from so many of the common "opposites attract" stories.

The other threads of the novel aren't quite as engaging. Margaret begins to form a tentative friendship with a sickly former-factory girl, whose constant refrain about her imminent journey to Holy Jerusalem is wearying, although not necessarily inaccurate. Margaret also deals with her surprisingly needy parents and with the case of her wayward brother, who has been accused of mutiny. The latter storyline is broached with perhaps one of the most ham-fisted instances of exposition I've ever read, to wit:

"Poor Frederick," thought she, sighing. "Oh! if Frederick had but been a clergyman, instead of going into the navy, and being lost to us all! I wish I knew all about it. I never understood it from Aunt Shaw; I only knew he could not come back to England because of that terrible affair."

So yes, it's a bit dated in terms of phrasing and language. For some reason I only very rarely get that impression from Dickens, although he and Gaskell were contemporaries. (According to my edition of the book, Dickens thought North and South was "[an] admirable story...full of character and power.") Of course, Dickens is rather short on grand romance.

In my previous post, I alluded to the fact that Mr. Thornton is possibly more swoonworthy than the much more famous Mr. Darcy. Naturally, it's a matter of taste. I think Mr. Thornton's biggest asset is that he's a self-made man. He's very capable, and he's eager to better himself (he takes classics lessons with Mr. Hale). Not that Darcy isn't accomplished...but what does he do all day? In addition, we as readers actually spend more time with Mr. Thornton, and get a better sense of his feelings. Some people are a bit leery of angst (and after Twilight, I well understood that feeling), but really, how can you argue with passages like this:

[Mr. Thorton] turned round to his mother; his face was very gray and grim. "Yes, mother. I do believe he is her lover." When he had spoken, he turned round again; he writhed himself about, like one in bodily pain. He leant his face against his hand.

Ah, jealousy (he's mistaken, of course). I don't remember Darcy writhing around, feeling the pain of his love. That's pretty intense.

Mr. Thornton is somewhat different in the miniseries, which stars Daniela Denby-Ashe and Richard Armitage. I'm not planning on doing a separate post on it, as I haven't seen it recently enough - I actually watched it before I read the book the first time. I did rewatch the first episode, though, and was struck with how, uh, violent** Mr. Thornton is in the miniseries. It's a bit of a leap from the book's Thornton, who prides himself in keeping his emotions in check (writhing aside). Other than that, I would say that in most regards the miniseries is more enjoyable than the book. The ending is changed substantially for the better, and some of the gloom of the book (people die off fairly regularly) is toned down.

Up next: I'm going to try The Burnt Orange Heresy by Charles Willeford, which is favorite of my dad's.

*Like many classics, North and South has an utterly dull cover in pretty much every edition. Thus I substituted another miniseries picture, which I find more aesthetically pleasing.

**Perhaps I shouldn't find the violent turn of the miniseries surprising. After all, very shortly thereafter Mr. Thorton grew out his hair, traveled back in time, and happily spent his days as the evil henchman of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Bleak House by Charles Dickens

"In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the First - I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent King - Sir Morbury Dedlock was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should think it very likely indeed."

Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion, because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes; a genteel distinction to which common people have no claim.

-Bleak House

It's hard to know where to begin with Bleak House, to even choose a proper quotation to illustrate it. As I was reading, I tried to remember page numbers of particularly good passages, but I've ended up with more than I need. (As opposed to times when I've halfheartedly leafed through a book to find anything worth quoting.) I may sneak another quotation in at the end.

Bleak House is the story of a young woman. No, a ludicrously complicated court case. A woman troubled by a ghost. A man troubled by the east wind. Marriage. Death. Love. Spontaneous combustion.

Let's start with the young woman. Her name is Esther Summerson. When we first meet her, she tells us of her childhood: born out of wedlock and raised by a staunchly religious woman, a combination that turns out about as well as you might expect. Fortunately for Esther, provisions are made for her after the death of her guardian, and they eventually lead her to the home of John Jarndyce.

Mr. Jarndyce is warm and kind, almost absurdly modest about taking Esther in to live as a companion to an orphaned young cousin of his, Ada Clare. Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and their other cousin, Richard Carstone, are also embroiled in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, a lawsuit over a contested will, the complexity and duration of which has left it a joke in the eyes of the law. Mr. Jarndyce, however, takes it seriously enough to try to avoid it entirely: Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been the ruin of many a man.

What of that woman who hears a ghostly footfall outside her bedroom window? That would be Lady Dedlock. She's beautiful and haughty, the talk of all society. She doesn't care much for that, or for anything, really. So it comes as quite a surprise when she swoons at the sight of some legal papers (she is also a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, naturally) in the possession of her husband's lawyer, the relentless and sinister Mr. Tulkinghorn. What could cause a lady of such renowned composure to give way like that, the reader may wonder. Mr. Tulkinghorn wants to know as well, and his investigation sets into a motion a chain of events that even he could not anticipate.

I could do plot summary for ages, trying to set up some of the dozens of characters that populate Bleak House, but I'm going to move on. I've always enjoyed Dickens, but it wasn't until last summer that I picked up Bleak House. I'd been put off by the name, I suppose. Sounded like a bit of a bummer.

Bleak House is actually the name of Mr. Jarndyce's home, though there's no explanation as to how he (or his family) came to choose such an inhospitable name. You could probably also argue that the title could refer less literally to some of the less pleasant abodes we see in the novel. However, I just want to assure you that it's not 800 pages of misery. There are sad passages, without question, but there are also hopeful ones, even funny ones.

I absolutely fell in love with Bleak House last summer, and watched the wonderful miniseries shortly thereafter. Bleak House basically goes against a lot of what I've posted about summer reading, and it's certainly pretty heavy for your beach bag, but talk about storytelling. I think the reason I felt the impetus to reread it this summer was that it's just so good that I knew it would transport me away from what was otherwise a somewhat stressful time.

Speaking of good, I want to get in a few more words about Esther Summerson, as she is our heroine. I love Esther. She is absolutely good without being overly perfect or one-dimensional. Yes, everyone who meets her, loves her - but you can't help but see why*. Esther is not just passively good, she's actively good, and I think that makes all the difference. She will take in a sick urchin off the streets because it's the right thing to do, even if she endangers herself in doing so. She will travel to reason with Richard when he continues along his misguided path further and further into the snarled workings of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. And towards the close of the novel, she will make another, far more harrowing journey to seek out someone she loves.

What am I leaving out? The amusing declarations and legalese of Mr. Guppy, as well as his hilarious mother. The Growlery. That elderly child, Harold Skimpole. Mr. Smallweed and his brimstone magpie of a wife. Yes, at this point I'm just putting in all the Dickensian phrasing that I find memorable.

"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping both my guardian's hands eagerly.
"Nothing more, Rick; nothing more."
"And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?"
"Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?"
"I will begin the world!" said Richard, with a light in his eyes.

Oh, Dickens. I'm not sure, but I'm going to put this out there: Bleak House might be my favorite novel, ever. How's that for a recommendation?

Up next: Well, I actually finished Bleak House a few days ago, but I hadn't had enough time to write. So, in the meantime, I've already finished up the 2nd Sookie Stackhouse book, and I expect to be back to write about that shortly. My next move after that is undecided - I have a lot of choices, hooray.

*Apparently you can. After posting this, I finally read the introduction to my edition of Bleak House, and found that many people do not share my opinion of Esther. To which I say: whatever. I think it's refreshing to have a woman who is good and earnest, not to mention resilient. I'm so tired of jaded characters.

The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy

Hello, reader. I've decided to ever-so-tentatively dip my toe in the pool of blogging. My aim is to review, however briefly, books that I read. Perhaps it might inspire someone to pick up a book; otherwise, I'm perfectly happy to have this as my own record of what I've read. So, without further ado...

"Well, as my views changed my course became very depressing. I found that I was trying to be like people who had hardly anything in common with myself. I was endeavouring to put off one sort of life for another sort of life, which was not any better than the life I had known before. It was simply different."
- Clym Yeobright, The Return of the Native

There's a moment in the film The History Boys (yes, book blog, I realize I'm already getting off track) in which one character expresses the wonder of reading something written long ago that speaks directly to you, likening it to a hand coming up through the page to grasp your own. I felt something akin to that upon reading Clym's words above, as sometimes I feel I am living in a world that is so different from where I grew up, and outwardly "better" perhaps (much like Paris is for Clym), yet in some respects not so.

But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. The Return of the Native is Hardy (cue groan), one of the more intimidating writers, not for his language (which is often quite engaging, even amusing), but more for his themes - misery on the heath doesn't exactly inspire one to run down to the library. And that's unfortunate, because if you can get past the fact that things aren't exactly rosy in Hardy's world, there's a lot to be said for it.

The titular native is the previously-quoted Clym Yeobright, a clever and industrious young man who has become dissatisfied with his lot as a diamond merchant in Paris, and has decided to return to his home in rural England to teach. His resolve to do so, despite his mother's protests, is strengthened when he meets the bewitching Eustacia Vye. Eustacia longs to escape the heath for somewhere more cosmopolitan (you can already see how this is going to be a problem, yes?). In addition, there is a bit of a love pentagon brewing that also involves a handsome innkeeper, Clym's timid cousin, and the local reddleman (who sells dye for marking sheep). Things go...not so well, as you might have guessed.

I first read Hardy the summer before my senior year in high school: Tess of the d'Urbervilles. I was not looking forward to it, and was surprised to find that it wasn't half-bad. Earlier this year, I read The Mayor of Casterbridge after watching a wonderful television adaptation starring Rome actors Ciaran Hinds, James Purefoy, and Polly Walker. I didn't like Native quite so much as the latter, but it certainly has a lot of fine points. The characters are well drawn, for one. There is not a villain among them, yet selfishness, simple mistakes, and, of course, fate contrive to allow some terrible events to transpire. The plot is not predictable, but always plausible, and although I felt the end to perhaps be a bit much, I can't say it wasn't a pageturner by that point.

Aha, now I'm beginning to discern how it could be difficult to write this blog: I could go off in many directions at this point. I could warn that you may be tempted to roll your eyes at Eustacia's theatrics, or speculate upon the accuracy of casting in the tv movie (another Rome alum, Ray Stevenson, as Clym; Clive Owen as his rival Wildeve), or praise Hardy for his excellent character names (they're uniformly snazzy, yes? I guess after a hard day cutting furze, heath dwellers came home and got pretty creative in the baby name department). I guess I'll settle for mentioning all of these things and elaborating on none; a bit of a cop-out, but it is my first post.

I guess it boils down to this: should you read it? I will say, I don't think you (the generalized you, that is) should be put off by the author. The first 20 pages are a bit of a slog, but after that it's not a difficult read, and you get the pleasure in enjoying the work of someone who really knew how to use words beautifully. If you're doubtful, it may be worth giving the movie a go first (if you don't mind spoilers) - I can't vouch for its quality, having not yet seen it, but this approach worked really well for Mayor. You'll have a streamlined narrative in your head before you read, which should make everything quite easy to follow, and you'll be able to relish all of the details that inevitably were cut to allow a decent running time.

Next up: I've been simultaneously reading Native and rereading childhood favorite The Westing Game, so I may finish that up next; I also have the non-fiction book Red Tails in Love sitting on my shelf.