I read my first Thomas Hardy words about ten years ago. Return of the Native. I fell in love (seriously, I changed all of my passwords to Eustacia1... they have since been changed...just in case) and swore to ration his words out so I would never be all Hardy'ed out. At that time in my life I thought that meant a novel a year (I guess I was counting on the poems to get me through old age...and middle age... well, there are a lot of poems). God, I loved Eustacia Vye so much.
So I kept reading...Jude, Tess, the Mayor, the Madding Crowd, and then Two on a Tower. Two on a Tower was the one that did it. Swithin. Lady Constantine. God, couldn't they just be happy? But of course that's not why you read Mr. Hardy. And I used to love it, knowing that bad ends were coming...because the words were so perfect. Maybe I'm just getting too something. I'm still holding out hope for the poems.
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