Thomas Hardy

I write this with a bright yellow pen because it has been a bright yellow day, and to counteract Hardy’s pessimism and despair. Many years ago when I was determined to read all the classics and so improve myself (probably age 10-14—an ambition somewhat like Hardy’s), I read “Return of the Native” and “Jude the Obscure.” I didn’t particularly understand or enjoy them. John loves “Tess.” I liked “Far From the Madding Crowd,” I think because against all probability, it has a happy ending. John says Hardy was much more pessimistic and despairing after the death of his friend, which occurred as he was writing this book.

I like Hardy, and dislike him, I think for the same reason—his psychological bones are showing through. He reveals his own primary processes more than most, perhaps.

On our walk to Max Gate we passed an old man working in his garden who said Hardy bicycled past that very spot when the gardener was a child. “He was a mean old gentleman,” he said. “But his people stayed with him all his life. That says something, it does.” [2003]

TH seems like a sour old guy, but maybe he was just depressed. And really good writers are allowed deplorable personal lives. I wonder how grumpy I will be as I get older, and how grumpy I would be if I were famous and people tried to follow me around and look in my windows. Thank goodness there’s no danger. Being a largely female group, there is skepticism among us as to TH’s poetical romantic protestations. It sounds like he was more in love with his own inventions than with any real people in his life. Again, maybe that’s what it takes to be a convincing writer with convincing characters. [2005]