Now that I've run out of required topics, it's hard to find a good topic for a post. I guess I'll just run through some of the thoughts I've left unsaid about The Mayor of Casterbridge.
First, I'd highly recommend the book to anyone. It's got a great cast of characters. They're all memorable and interesting, if not necessarily likable. It's also a pretty easy read, at least compared with some of the other books we've read as a class. Thematically it's nowhere near as complex as a book like Song of Solomon. And Hardy's prose is way ahead of its time in terms of readability for a modern reader. The novel is also a reasonable length. So, if you're looking for a good book, definitely give The Mayor of Casterbridge a shot.
A lot of books have good endings. The "Historical Notes" section in The Handmaid's Tale is a pretty good ending. Having said that, the last couple lines of the Historical Notes don't really give a great sense of ending. I think the last sentence is something like "Any questions?" It's fine, but Atwood could easily have followed that with something like "End of transcript." or whatever and the ending would have been just as satisfying. What I'm saying is, despite a very good overall ending, the final sentence itself is kind of arbitrary.
Hardy, on the other hand, totally sticks the landing. The last sentence seems very final. It doesn't seem like he could have written one more sentence, or one less. I have no idea whether it has the same effect for people who haven't read the book, but here it is: "And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate [Elizabeth-Jane] did not cease to wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquility had been accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain" (p. 369) With the whole last paragraph, Hardy's discussing the themes of the novel pretty explicitly. I know that's probably bothersome for some people, but even those people would surely acknowledge the real sense of finality in the ending.
Personally, a good ending can really elevate my opinion of the whole book. I guess it's because the ending is what's last in your mind, giving it a greater influence on your thoughts. Anyway, I've realized how appropriate this discussion of endings is to my final blog post. If only I could think of a good final sentence...
Monday, March 5, 2018
Thursday, February 22, 2018
Meaning of the work as a whole
Today in class we discussed the classical elements of a tragedy and how Macbeth might be a tragic hero. All I can say is that the timing is very fortunate. The Mayor of Casterbridge is tragic beyond belief.
Michael Henchard is a tragic character with a major flaw: “the volcanic fires of his nature” (p. 260). He's got an awful temper. When he's mad his instincts take hold of him, leaving no room for thought. It's why he sells his wife, frustrated by the “extinction of his energies by an early imprudent marriage” (p. 12). It's why he estranges himself from his best friend Donald Farfrae, his “jealous temper” unable to stand Farfrae being “top sawyer” in public opinion (p. 122). It's why he gambles away his wheat-crop empire on the advice of a local clairvoyant, his desire to “grind [Farfrae] into the ground” causing him to ignore smart business practices (p. 205). Throughout the entire novel, Henchard's temper has disastrous consequences.
Henchard isn't stupid, though. He recognizes his problem, and even takes steps toward fixing it. After he sells his wife, for example, he takes an oath to “avoid all strong liquors for the space of twenty-one years to come” (p. 23). He understands that alcohol exacerbates his bad temper. As the novel progresses, Henchard's attempts to keep his temper in check eventually result in success. Henchard resists, for example, the temptation to ruin Farfrae's chances of marriage to Elizabeth-Jane by revealing Elizabeth-Jane as “legally, nobody's child” (p. 339). Instead he convinces himself that he's ok with the marriage by repeating to himself, “I am content” (p. 338). You might think that Henchard's growth as a character means he escapes a tragic end, but you'd be wrong.
You'd be wrong because, despite how I've presented it so far, Henchard's tragic struggle is not a struggle against his own temper. Henchard thinks it is, though. What he doesn't realize—not until the final moments of the novel—is that his real battle is one impossible to win. Try as he might, he cannot escape the permanent consequences of his past actions.
After Henchard sells his wife, he tries to start things over. He leaves the town of Weydon-Priors and wanders throughout southern England till he reaches the town of Casterbridge. Here nobody knows his dark past, and he has a fresh start (or so it seems). In the next 20 years he becomes tremendously successful, even achieving the position of town mayor. But Henchard's escape from the consequences of the past is only temporary. One day someone who witnessed the auction of Mrs. Henchard arrives in Casterbridge. Recognizing the mayor, the newcomer reveals Henchard's secret and “the act having laid as dead and buried ever since, the interspace of time was unperceived; and the black spot of his youth wore the aspect of a recent crime” (p. 242). And, just like that, Henchard's new reputation and position are completely destroyed.
In my opinion these ideas about the permanence of past events, and the futility of trying to escape their influence, constitute the central theme of the novel. And it's hard to think of a theme more tragic, especially considering that it's true even for people who have learned from their mistakes and changed. I mean Henchard's actually a nice-enough guy by the end of the novel, but his past mistakes stay with him anyway.
Henchard's final downfall is follows this idea. It's hard to talk about in specifics, though, since there are several contradictory surprise twists over the course of the novel. Deception on top of deception of top of deception, really. There's just too much context that you'd need for it to make sense. But here's the gist of it. Henchard and his stepdaughter Elizabeth-Jane have developed a really positive relationship. This is the end of the novel, so he's really poor and has no other friends. But that's ok because he's got his stepdaughter. But then Elizabeth finds out a terrible secret that Henchard's been keeping from her. This devastates her completely and she forsakes Henchard. I know this is terribly vague, but it's basically the same idea as his fall from being mayor. Just this time he's got nothing left so it's a fatal blow.
It's a pretty bleak ending, to say the least.
Michael Henchard is a tragic character with a major flaw: “the volcanic fires of his nature” (p. 260). He's got an awful temper. When he's mad his instincts take hold of him, leaving no room for thought. It's why he sells his wife, frustrated by the “extinction of his energies by an early imprudent marriage” (p. 12). It's why he estranges himself from his best friend Donald Farfrae, his “jealous temper” unable to stand Farfrae being “top sawyer” in public opinion (p. 122). It's why he gambles away his wheat-crop empire on the advice of a local clairvoyant, his desire to “grind [Farfrae] into the ground” causing him to ignore smart business practices (p. 205). Throughout the entire novel, Henchard's temper has disastrous consequences.
Henchard isn't stupid, though. He recognizes his problem, and even takes steps toward fixing it. After he sells his wife, for example, he takes an oath to “avoid all strong liquors for the space of twenty-one years to come” (p. 23). He understands that alcohol exacerbates his bad temper. As the novel progresses, Henchard's attempts to keep his temper in check eventually result in success. Henchard resists, for example, the temptation to ruin Farfrae's chances of marriage to Elizabeth-Jane by revealing Elizabeth-Jane as “legally, nobody's child” (p. 339). Instead he convinces himself that he's ok with the marriage by repeating to himself, “I am content” (p. 338). You might think that Henchard's growth as a character means he escapes a tragic end, but you'd be wrong.
You'd be wrong because, despite how I've presented it so far, Henchard's tragic struggle is not a struggle against his own temper. Henchard thinks it is, though. What he doesn't realize—not until the final moments of the novel—is that his real battle is one impossible to win. Try as he might, he cannot escape the permanent consequences of his past actions.
After Henchard sells his wife, he tries to start things over. He leaves the town of Weydon-Priors and wanders throughout southern England till he reaches the town of Casterbridge. Here nobody knows his dark past, and he has a fresh start (or so it seems). In the next 20 years he becomes tremendously successful, even achieving the position of town mayor. But Henchard's escape from the consequences of the past is only temporary. One day someone who witnessed the auction of Mrs. Henchard arrives in Casterbridge. Recognizing the mayor, the newcomer reveals Henchard's secret and “the act having laid as dead and buried ever since, the interspace of time was unperceived; and the black spot of his youth wore the aspect of a recent crime” (p. 242). And, just like that, Henchard's new reputation and position are completely destroyed.
In my opinion these ideas about the permanence of past events, and the futility of trying to escape their influence, constitute the central theme of the novel. And it's hard to think of a theme more tragic, especially considering that it's true even for people who have learned from their mistakes and changed. I mean Henchard's actually a nice-enough guy by the end of the novel, but his past mistakes stay with him anyway.
Henchard's final downfall is follows this idea. It's hard to talk about in specifics, though, since there are several contradictory surprise twists over the course of the novel. Deception on top of deception of top of deception, really. There's just too much context that you'd need for it to make sense. But here's the gist of it. Henchard and his stepdaughter Elizabeth-Jane have developed a really positive relationship. This is the end of the novel, so he's really poor and has no other friends. But that's ok because he's got his stepdaughter. But then Elizabeth finds out a terrible secret that Henchard's been keeping from her. This devastates her completely and she forsakes Henchard. I know this is terribly vague, but it's basically the same idea as his fall from being mayor. Just this time he's got nothing left so it's a fatal blow.
It's a pretty bleak ending, to say the least.
Friday, February 16, 2018
Why A.P.?
"As they read, students [in A.P. Literature and Composition] consider a work's structure, style, and themes,
as well as its use of figurative language, imagery, symbolism, and tone." So says the College Board. It seems to me, then, that any work containing these elements is A.P. worthy.
The novels of Thomas Hardy are classics for a reason. Or rather for many reasons. Certainly each novel, not excluding The Mayor of Casterbridge, is worthy of the A.P. curriculum. That is to say the structure, style, themes, figurative language, imagery, symbolism, and tone of The Mayor of Casterbridge are worth considering. Having already touched on style and figurative language—and intending to discuss themes later—I will consider some of the remaining literary devices here.
The chapters in The Mayor of Casterbridge are episodic. They nearly work as stand-alone readings. Each chapter has its own arc, and new plot points are revealed as old ones are resolved. The story of Michael Henchard and the cast of Casterbridge residents progresses chapter to chapter in a linear fashion. As Hardy's novels were originally serialized, this structure suited his works well.
Like with many other Victorian novelists, Hardy's imagery can be almost cinematic. It's best, I think, just to present the following passage as an example.
"The river—slow, noiseless, and dark—the Schwarzwasser of Casterbridge—ran beneath a low cliff, the two together forming a defence which had rendered walls and artificial earthworks on this side unnecessary. Here were ruins of a Franciscan priory, and a mill attached to the same, the water of which roared down a back-hatch like the voice of desolation. Above the cliff, and behind the river, rose a pile of buildings, and in the front of the pile a square mass cut into the sky. It was like a pedestal lacking its statue. This missing feature, without which the design remained incomplete, was, in truth, the corpse of a man, for the square mass formed the base of the gallows, the extensive buildings at the back being the county gaol." (p. 143)
Here, as Hardy describes the poorer quarter of Casterbridge, the vivid imagery and the bleak tone work hand in hand to develop a sense of gloom. The atmosphere mirrors Henchard's internal feelings. He has just learned that his daughter isn't really his daughter. Distraught at his lack of offspring, Henchard is wandering contemplatively throughout Casterbridge. It's through Hardy's use of imagery and tone, rather than explicit narration or dialog, that the reader comes to understand Henchard's inner thoughts.
It's clear that there's a lot to the book. You could really dissect it if you wanted to. That's what the College Board is going for, I think. As long as a novel has something (anything) going on beneath the surface, it's got "literary merit" to some degree. So I'd have to argue that Thomas Hardy and The Mayor of Casterbridge are A.P. worthy.
The novels of Thomas Hardy are classics for a reason. Or rather for many reasons. Certainly each novel, not excluding The Mayor of Casterbridge, is worthy of the A.P. curriculum. That is to say the structure, style, themes, figurative language, imagery, symbolism, and tone of The Mayor of Casterbridge are worth considering. Having already touched on style and figurative language—and intending to discuss themes later—I will consider some of the remaining literary devices here.
The chapters in The Mayor of Casterbridge are episodic. They nearly work as stand-alone readings. Each chapter has its own arc, and new plot points are revealed as old ones are resolved. The story of Michael Henchard and the cast of Casterbridge residents progresses chapter to chapter in a linear fashion. As Hardy's novels were originally serialized, this structure suited his works well.
Like with many other Victorian novelists, Hardy's imagery can be almost cinematic. It's best, I think, just to present the following passage as an example.
"The river—slow, noiseless, and dark—the Schwarzwasser of Casterbridge—ran beneath a low cliff, the two together forming a defence which had rendered walls and artificial earthworks on this side unnecessary. Here were ruins of a Franciscan priory, and a mill attached to the same, the water of which roared down a back-hatch like the voice of desolation. Above the cliff, and behind the river, rose a pile of buildings, and in the front of the pile a square mass cut into the sky. It was like a pedestal lacking its statue. This missing feature, without which the design remained incomplete, was, in truth, the corpse of a man, for the square mass formed the base of the gallows, the extensive buildings at the back being the county gaol." (p. 143)
Here, as Hardy describes the poorer quarter of Casterbridge, the vivid imagery and the bleak tone work hand in hand to develop a sense of gloom. The atmosphere mirrors Henchard's internal feelings. He has just learned that his daughter isn't really his daughter. Distraught at his lack of offspring, Henchard is wandering contemplatively throughout Casterbridge. It's through Hardy's use of imagery and tone, rather than explicit narration or dialog, that the reader comes to understand Henchard's inner thoughts.
It's clear that there's a lot to the book. You could really dissect it if you wanted to. That's what the College Board is going for, I think. As long as a novel has something (anything) going on beneath the surface, it's got "literary merit" to some degree. So I'd have to argue that Thomas Hardy and The Mayor of Casterbridge are A.P. worthy.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Style
In most respects The Mayor of Casterbridge is written in a fairly conventional style. First published in 1886, it shares a lot of stylistic qualities with other Victorian-era novels. That said, Hardy's sentence-to-sentence writing does stand out in a few ways. In particular, Hardy's technique of making an allusion via simile is very noticeable.
Hardy uses this technique all the time. He describes a character whose eyes are "as if Nature had been advised by Correggio in their creation." After a disappointment Henchard wanders around "like Bellerophon" (that is to say, "cankered in soul"). In one scene Elizabeth-Jane is troubled by Henchard's presence, "like the brethren at the avowal of Joseph." Elizabeth-Jane has poor penmanship, not at all "like the Princess Ida." At 10:30 the town avenues are "deserted as the avenues of Karnac." This list goes on, and on, and on...
For the most part these allusions are lost on me. I think that's mostly since Hardy was writing with a very different audience in mind than myself. With some quick Googling, though, I can usually get myself up to speed.
Correggio was a Renaissance-era painter. In Greek myths Bellerophon was a hero who was, late in life, doomed to wander around blind and miserable. Joseph's brothers, in Genesis, resent Joseph's favorable standings with their father and with God. Furthermore, the brothers sell Joseph off to get rid of him (certainly an appropriate allusion for this book). Karnak was an ancient Egyptian city—long-abandoned and in ruins by Hardy's time—whose roads would understandably be empty.
Hardy's idea is, of course, to develop further his characters and descriptions by drawing comparisons to well-known people, events, etc. For a reader like me, though, it's hard to say these allusions are really adding anything. And—again—I'd like to think it's a consequence of 150 years passing since the book was written, and of not total ignorance on my part.
At first I kind of enjoyed looking up these allusions. I felt like I was getting some insight into Hardy's audience. Who knew 19th century readers could catch all these references? But Hardy uses this technique a ton, and for me it has reached a point of over-saturation. Like with the infamous Wilhelm Scream, what started off totally innocuous has quickly become grating, if not quite unbearable. I can't help but notice (and become irked) as I read.
In wrapping up, I want to clarify that I enjoy Hardy's style overall. It's pretty engaging, and I think he's got a great ability to write about serious things with a sense of humor. He just abuses his right as an author to make allusions.
Hardy uses this technique all the time. He describes a character whose eyes are "as if Nature had been advised by Correggio in their creation." After a disappointment Henchard wanders around "like Bellerophon" (that is to say, "cankered in soul"). In one scene Elizabeth-Jane is troubled by Henchard's presence, "like the brethren at the avowal of Joseph." Elizabeth-Jane has poor penmanship, not at all "like the Princess Ida." At 10:30 the town avenues are "deserted as the avenues of Karnac." This list goes on, and on, and on...
For the most part these allusions are lost on me. I think that's mostly since Hardy was writing with a very different audience in mind than myself. With some quick Googling, though, I can usually get myself up to speed.
Correggio was a Renaissance-era painter. In Greek myths Bellerophon was a hero who was, late in life, doomed to wander around blind and miserable. Joseph's brothers, in Genesis, resent Joseph's favorable standings with their father and with God. Furthermore, the brothers sell Joseph off to get rid of him (certainly an appropriate allusion for this book). Karnak was an ancient Egyptian city—long-abandoned and in ruins by Hardy's time—whose roads would understandably be empty.
Hardy's idea is, of course, to develop further his characters and descriptions by drawing comparisons to well-known people, events, etc. For a reader like me, though, it's hard to say these allusions are really adding anything. And—again—I'd like to think it's a consequence of 150 years passing since the book was written, and of not total ignorance on my part.
At first I kind of enjoyed looking up these allusions. I felt like I was getting some insight into Hardy's audience. Who knew 19th century readers could catch all these references? But Hardy uses this technique a ton, and for me it has reached a point of over-saturation. Like with the infamous Wilhelm Scream, what started off totally innocuous has quickly become grating, if not quite unbearable. I can't help but notice (and become irked) as I read.
In wrapping up, I want to clarify that I enjoy Hardy's style overall. It's pretty engaging, and I think he's got a great ability to write about serious things with a sense of humor. He just abuses his right as an author to make allusions.
Friday, February 2, 2018
Characterization
In the opening scene of Thomas Hardy's
novel The Mayor of Casterbridge,
Michael Henchard (who later becomes the titular mayor) makes the
worst mistake of his life. He sells his wife and infant daughter in
an auction.
At
this point Henchard's not a mayor, but an out-of-work hay-trusser.
He and his wife Susan are wandering around, looking for work. Their
relationship is clearly pretty strained—rarely do they even speak
to each other. They decide to stop at the town of Weydon-Priors,
where there's huge fair going on. Here Henchard gets obscenely
drunk, and this exacerbates his worst qualities: his short temper and
his impulsiveness. He argues loudly with Susan, and with other
fairgoers laments the “ruin of good men by bad wives.” The scene
escalates quickly and culminates in the sale of Susan and
Elizabeth-Jane, the daughter, to a sailor from out of town. Shortly
thereafter, Henchard passes out.
Upon
awakening the next morning, Henchard immediately regrets the events
of the previous day. In the nearest church, he swears not to drink
at all for 20 years. The next several months he spends in search of
Susan and Elizabeth-Jane, but to no success. Despite his remarkable
persistence, Henchard does eventually give up the search and turns,
penniless, to the town of Casterbridge.
Here
the novel fast-forwards 18 years. Henchard has become the mayor and
also fantastically wealthy. But, as Henchard himself says, “the
Mayor of Casterbridge is not so thriving in his mind as it seems he
might be from the state of his pocket.” He has struggled with a
tremendous sense of guilt.
It's
at this point that Susan and Elizabeth-Jane arrive in Casterbridge in
search of Henchard, the sailor having drowned at sea. In hopes of
atoning for his past actions, Henchard is eager to welcome them back
into his life. “Judge me,” he begs Susan, “by my future
works.”
He
promises to remarry her, and in courting her proceeds to pay her
excessively frequent visits. In addition to making amends, he also
hopes to “castigate himself with the thorns which these restitutory
acts bring in their train; among them the lowering of his dignity in
public opinion by marrying so comparatively humble a woman.” In
addition to atonement, he also is seeking punishment for his past
wrongs.
BUT...
Henchard knows he can never fully atone for his past wrongs. In the
interim between selling Susan and accepting her back into his life,
he promised to marry another woman. He is equally obligated to both
women, but must chose one over the other....
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