Fiction: “The Mayor of Casterbridge” by Thomas Hardy

Oh, my God.  I can’t believe I spent SO LONG reading THAT.

A) of all, I did not think it would take me nearly a month to read The Mayor of Casterbridge.  Of course, having said that, I did not take into account the craziness that would explode at work, what with writing reviews and staying late and all the other … well, craziness.  And B) of all, dudes — the next time I have a dream wherein I’m reading a book I’ve never read before, and I decide that I want to read that book to see if there are any parallels between the novel and the dream or whatever else is going on in my life?  I want y’all to point to this moment in my life, say “Mayor of Casterbridge,” and then smack me in the face, because there are never ANY parallels between what I dream and what I read.

And here’s a difficulty for me and this book: I liked Tess of the d’Urbervilles.  I thought I would like any Hardy equally.  I WAS WRONG.

The titular Mayor of Casterbridge is Michael Henchard.  You may think the narrative focuses on his tenure as Mayor — you would be wrong.  The novel begins when Michael, his wife, Susan, and their infant daughter Elizabeth-Jane enter the fair at Weydon Priors.  They have been traveling, and they are hungry.  So they buy something called furmity (which sounds like porridge to me), and Michael spikes his with rum (as I would do, given porridge as my only option).  He gets progressively drunker, rants against his poverty, and in his supreme moment of drunkenness, proclaims to sell his wife for five pounds.  A passing sailor, Newsom, takes him at his deal, and voila – Mrs. Henchard now becomes Mrs. Newsom.  The next day, Michael is appropriately chastised, but decides it’s for the best for both himself and Susan.  He vows to abstain from alcohol for twenty-one years, which is his current age.

Flash-foward about nineteen years or so, and Susan and her eighteen-year-old daughter, Elizabeth-Jane, are entering Casterbridge, looking for an ‘old relative,’ Henchard.  They are astounded to find him in good health, good spirits, a wealthy corn-and-hay-broker, as well as one of the Mayors of the town.  They spend the night in an inn, rather than claim kin right away.  While there, they meet Donald Farfrae, a Scotsman who’s passing through the town towards the coast, hoping to set sail for the Americas.  Henchard meets up with him, and is impressed with his solution for saving blighted corn, and offers him the job of manager of his corn processing plant (or whatever).  Farfrae and Elizabeth meet in the inn, but neither say anything to each other.

The next day, Elizabeth goes to Henchard and claims kin in a roundabout way.  Henchard goes to meet Susan that night, and they agree that the best idea for both of them (due to Henchard’s claim that he’s a widower) is to have the Newsoms move into a house in town, have Henchard ‘court’ Susan, and then remarry later.    Meanwhile, Farfrae is gaining in the business, and Henchard is starting to feel slightly unnerved by the quiet, stoic Scotsman.  When Susan dies, Henchard is afraid that Elizabeth will leave him alone, and so he tells her that he is actually her father, not the sea captain Newsom she had believed all of her life.  But then, right after he tells her this, he goes looking for something in Susan’s bureau and finds a letter addressed to Henchard, to not be opened until Elizabeth’s wedding-day.  Henchard, being a curious bugger, opens it, and finds that — gasp! — his Elizabeth-Jane died shortly after being sold to Newsom, and Elizabeth-Jane in the parlor is actually Newsom’s Elizabeth-Jane!  [Did you see the math I did up there, where Elizabeth-Jane was 18 only 19 years after being sold?  Huh?  Did you see that?]

But he doesn’t tell her that, because a) of all, he doesn’t want to lose her, and b) of all, it would look really stupid of him to say “Hey, uh, remember five seconds ago when I said I was your dad?  Apparently your mom lied to me and you’re not my daughter after all.  Sorry.”

And then, there’s Lucetta.  Lucetta comes to town shortly after or shortly before Susan’s death (I can’t remember, and even though the book is right next to the keyboard, I’m not going to look it up).  She wants to marry Henchard, because they had an affair years ago, in which he proposed marriage, but then rescinded because his wife wasn’t really dead.  Now that she’s dead, Lucetta can marry Henchard!  But then she meets Farfrae and falls in love with him even more, and so she rebuffs Henchard and marries Farfrae on the sly.

Meanwhile, Henchard has forecasted poorly in that year’s harvest, and he has lost everything.  So he has lost his actual wife; the woman he was going to marry; his daughter; his business; and his friendship with Farfrae.  He continues on his downward slide; Lucetta asks him to return her love letters to him.  He gives them to his new manager, Jopp, to deliver, because he doesn’t want to see her again.  Instead, Jopp goes to a shady tavern and reads them out loud, which leads the bad side of town to discern that Henchard and Lucetta were adulterers years ago, and they plan something called a “skimmington ride,” which used to happen when adultery was discovered.  One night, after a Royal Personage goes through town (and Henchard embarrasses himself by trying to shake the Prince’s hand in front of everyone, apparently that’s something that’s frowned upon in mid-19th-Century Rural Britain), and the shady people send Farfrae out on a stupid mission to get him out of town (because if there were a sitcom based on this book back then, it would be Everybody Loves Farfrae), and the shady people make up some dummies of Henchard and Lucetta, tie them to a donkey, and set the donkey marching through town.  Lucetta sees the donkey, is able to add two and two, and has a seizure from the shock.  She’s also pregnant, not that it matters, because both die.  Thanks, donkey.

Henchard ostracizes himself from society, but when Elizabeth sees how lonely he is, she goes to him and offers to stay with him to keep him company and take care of him.  But then!  Sea Captain Newsom returns from the dead!  And he wants to see Elizabeth!  And Henchard lies and tells him that she died.  So Newsom leaves town, but then Henchard regrets doing that, but he’s too greedy to let Elizabeth know her real father is alive.

Eventually, Farfrae proposes marriage to Elizabeth-Jane, she accepts, then Newsom returns again and she is made aware of Henchard’s deception.  Henchard returns to Casterbridge on this, the day of his ‘daughter’s’ wedding (I’m sorry), and they have a big fight and he leaves again.  He dies like, four days later, not wanting a proper burial or recognition, because he feels he doesn’t deserve it.

Er, thus endeth the Cliffs Notes edition of The Mayor of Casterbridge.  And look, if I wasn’t so tired all the time (no, seriously, I fell asleep at 4 a.m., slept until 1 p.m., then woke up from an hour-long nap on the couch at 6 after trying to finish this book, what the hell), I may have enjoyed it more.  Hardy really enjoys playing with happenstance and random events that aren’t under any character’s control, which is different from any other novelist writing during that time period (I direct your attention to Charles Dickens and any of his books).  There’s a lot about making decisions based on selfish needs and the dichotomy between Farfrae and Henchard is interesting — I just found it a chore to get through.

So I rate it with 1.5 stars (because classic literature automatically gets half a star if I can finish it), and move on to trashier things: the second Nikki Heat mystery, for one; the third Sookie Stackhouse mystery for another.

Grade for The Mayor of Casterbridge: 1.5 stars

Fiction: “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte

This is the third time I’ve read Jane Eyre, but the first time I haven’t had to read it for a class. I had to double-check that, because I could have sworn I’d read it a couple of years ago on my own, but looking through my records (yes, I keep records, hello, have you met me, I’m kind of anal) I haven’t read Jane Eyre since before 2006, which would have made the last reading for my 19th Century British Novel course in 2004.

I’ve picked up a couple of books that I’d once read for a class, and it’s interesting; much like when I read Tess of the d’Urbervilles a couple of years ago, I remember the themes that we discussed in class, but I don’t feel the need to analyze them again, which is nice. I recommend that if there was a book that you remember reading in high school or in college that you kinda liked, pick it up again. Tonight’s entry for Jane Eyre will not be discussing the beautiful versus the sublime (which was a major theme in the class), but more about Jane’s sense of individualism.

Of course, if there was a book you hated reading in high school, for the love of God, don’t pick it up again. I did not like Holden Caulfiend in Catcher in the Rye back in junior year, but it’s been over ten years; maybe now, he won’t seem so whiny and phony. However, I hated – haaaaaated – Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. If I ever get the whim to read that again — that’s like, the number three symptom on my list that designates I’m suffering from a severe mental illness.

Um, enough about that. Let’s talk about someone who actually suffers from a mental illness!

The story of Jane, if you don’t know: she was an orphan, beloved by her uncle Reed, but sadly for her, Uncle Reed died, leaving her in the care of Aunt Reed, who does not like her. At the end of her non-empathetic rope, Aunt Reed sends nine-year-old Jane Eyre off to the bare-bones charity school of Lowood. After half the school’s population dies of typhoid and malnutrition, the school gets taken over by characters who are more sympathetic to the needs of poor young girls, and Jane thrives, eventually becoming a teacher. But then she begins to get antsy, and advertises for herself as a governess. She is hired by Mrs. Fairfax, household manager of Thornfield. Jane moves to Thornfield to take care of Adele, a French girl of about ten. After being there a few months and starting to get antsy again, she is going to town to mail a letter when a man on a horse happens to fall off just as she passes. She helps him back on to his horse, continues to town, mails her letter, and when she returns she learns that she had helped her heretofore unknown landlord, Mr. Rochester, get back on the horse.

Mr. Rochester takes a fancy to Jane, which she tries to ignore, as it wouldn’t be proper. He has friends come and stay with him, including Miss Blanche Ingram. To Jane’s eye, it appears that Mr. Rochester intends to marry Miss Ingram. She does her best to ignore the blossoming romance, and finds an escape when she learns that her old Aunt Reed is on her deathbed. She returns to her childhood home, learns that she had an old uncle who wanted to make her his ward, but Aunt Reed was a bitch and wouldn’t let him contact her. Aunt Reed dies, Jane returns to Thornfield, and Mr. Rochester proposes marraige to her, and she accepts.

Meanwhile, weird shit has been happening around Thornfield. Mr. Rochester was almost burned alive in his bed; weird noises emanate from the third floor, and there’s this weird servant, Grace Poole. Oh, and some dude visiting almost got stabbed. So on the morning of her wedding, the ceremony is interrupted by a lawyer from London who announces to the small wedding party that Mr. Rochester is actually already married! To a crazy woman who’s been living in the attic!

So Jane runs away, lives destitute for a few days, and gets taken in by a poor, honest family named Rivers. Through some crazy random happenstance, they learn that they are cousins — how awesome is that? Except that St. John Rivers, the male cousin (and if I remember correctly, St. John is not pronounced Saint John, but Sinjin) wants to be a missionary, and wants Jane to be his wife. Not because he loves her, but because he thinks that’s all she’s good for. (Don’t worry, I’ll get into that later.)

So in another crazy random happenstance, Jane is thisclose to telling St. John she’ll go to India with him when she swears she hears a voice. She packs her shit, hires a coach to take her to Thornfield, finds the mansion burned to a crisp, but finds out that her beloved Mr. Rochester has retired to his secondary mansion (because everyone should have a secondary mansion) after his crazy wife nearly killed him in another fire, and now he’s blind and an amputee. And they marry, have a child, and eventually, he gets his sight back.

Okay. I just reread those paragraphs, and it sounds very trite and melodramatic. It’s not. If you’ve never read Jane Eyre before, please don’t take that stupid little summary as gospel. It’s much more exciting and yes, melodramatic. I picked up Jane Eyre again for a few reasons. Number one, there’s a new adaptation coming to theatres in March, starring Mia Wasikowska as Jane (she was Alice in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland last year) and Michael Fassbender as Mr. Rochester (and he was apparently in Band of Brothers and Inglorious Basterds), and I wanted to reread the book before seeing it (as I tend to do). Also, I’m beginning my research into Victorian literature, style, and other things, and I have a couple of examples of near-Gothic description and atmosphere that I’ve marked and can return to. But honestly, I was looking for a romance where I knew everything would turn out okay in the end (because I’d read it before), but for a while, thought it might not. Or something. I don’t know. But I remembered the romance between Jane and Rochester being deeper and more passionate than that of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy (SERIOUSLY DON’T THROW THINGS AT ME).

Speaking of that: I know that Virginia Woolf at one point tried to compare Pride & Prejudice to Jane Eyre, and decided that Jane Eyre was the lesser of the two, that the emotions in Jane Eyre were what ruined it. I say thee, nay. That’s what makes Jane Eyre better than Pride & Prejudice, and that’s why I’ve read Jane Eyre more times than Pride & Prejudice (zombie-infested versions don’t count).

I also remember reading the book in that 19th Century British Novel class — or maybe it was the Victorian Literature class — but regardless, I read somewhere that in the grand scheme of things, Jane and Rochester couldn’t marry in the middle of the book not because of Bertha Mason in the attic, but because they weren’t equals in terms of status. So when Jane comes into an inheritance in the last third of the book, then they should be able to marry. But what Bronte does is punish Mr. Rochester for his youthful indescretions and his more recent lies by making him blind and an amputee. And that … it doesn’t feel right to me. It’s probably different to me reading it now than it would have been to more pious readers back in the 1850s, but … is losing a hand that much of a step towards equality? That just seems to me too — uh, you’ll pardon the phrase, but heavy-handed. He has to lose his house, his sight, and a limb? Dude, Charlotte — give the man a break.

But the thing that I like most about Jane Eyre — the character, not the book — is that she is probably one of the first truly independent women in literature. And I’m not usually one to go finding feminist literature — I read historical romances, for cripes’s sake. But while Elizabeth Bennet is witty and smart and can take care of herself when needed, Jane always takes care of herself. Jane doesn’t even attempt to hide her sarcasm behind witticisms; she’s just outright sarcastic. She wants to know where she stands as an entity and as herself, not as property of Man. And above all, she thinks:

And now I thought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved–followed up and down where I was led or dragged–watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but now, I thought. [309]

This scene followed the great disclosure of Bertha Mason in the attic.

In an earlier example, Rochester asks her to sit still while he’s trying to propose marriage to her:

‘Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation,’

‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.’ [266]

Once engaged, their relationship is full of back-and-forth conversation and cutting insults. And it’s the type of relationship I’d love to have: bantery.

‘Look wicked, Jane; as you know well how to look; coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me–teaze [sic] me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.’

‘I will teaze [sic] you and vex you to your heart’s content, when I have finished my tale…’ [295]

Contrast that with her relationship with St. John, who intrigues Jane, but does not inspire the same type of love and respect that she had with Rochester.

I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his expectations he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was by; because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presence every effort to sustain or follow any other, became vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said ‘go,’ I went; ‘come,’ I came; ‘do this,’ I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect me. [419]

St. John also does not see her as an independent entity; she is not someone who has free will, or any personal inclinations. In St. John’s mind, God (his Sovereign) is who decides the purpose of everyone’s life; free will has nothing to do with it. Neither do emotions:

‘God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It is not personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary’s wife you must–shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you–not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.’ [424]

And here is where Jane’s innate sarcasm shines through:

‘Oh! I will give my heart to God,’ I said. ‘You do not want it.’

I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. [328]

And now, the It’s All About Alaina section.

Here is proof that Blanche Ingram is nothing more than the first incarnation of Lucy van Pelt:

‘Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.’ [203]

This relates to a joke between a friend of mine (name of Mason), and the phrase “Check Means Done.”:

‘Ever since I have known Mason, I have only had to say to him “Do that,” and the thing has been done.’ [227]

CHECK!

Finally: Dearest Jane, I totally empathize with this statement:

I tired for the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty; for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it, and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus: that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space; ‘Then,’ I cried, half desperate, ‘Grant me at least a new servitude!’ [89]

For as I come close to the nine-year mark of tenure at my place of business, I too at times feel the need to cry out, half-desperate, “Grant me at least a new servitude!”  But then I sigh, pull on my bootstraps, and keep on going. 

Grade for Jane Eyre: 4 stars

Fiction: “The Sherlock Holmes Mysteries” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

To be clear: I did not just finish reading the entire Sherlock Holmes canon. Good lord! That would have driven me mad!

No – this was one of the compilations I picked up after reading Beekeeper’s Apprentice the first time. There are 22 stories in this version, ranging from the all-important “A Scandal in Bohemia” to “The Final Problem” and finally, “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.” [A complete list will follow]

As I’m sure everyone is aware, the Holmes mysteries are “written” by Dr. John Watson, Holmes’s sometimes roommate and partner in detecting crime. Watson is written to be in awe of Holmes’s majestic mind, and somewhat of a dullard when it comes to noticing details. Holmes, meanwhile, is a genius of the first degree (though given to odd bouts of depression when things don’t go his way). We don’t see too much of Holmes as a reader aside from his genius deductions, though occasionally, Watson does let some humanity (or lack thereof) peek through:

This reticence upon his part had increased the somewhat inhuman effect which he produced upon me, until sometimes I found myself regarding him as an isolated phenomenon, a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence. His aversion to women and his disinclination to form new friendships were both typical of his unemotional character, but not more so than his complete suppression of every reference to his own people. ["The Greek Interpreter"] [220]

A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same singluarly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend. ["The Adventure of the Six Napoleons"] [402]

I’m not going to get into each mystery – that would take too long, and I seriously have to do the dishes before I go to work tonight. Instead, I’m going to tell you instead that out of the three Holmeses I’ve come into contact with (canon!Holmes, Beekeeper’s!Holmes, and Robert Downey Jr!Holmes), my favorite Holmes is from the Holmes & Russell series by Laurie R. King, followed by the Robert Downey Jr. version. (Clarification: I have never watched any of the earlier Holmeses, like Jeremy Brett or Basil Rathbone.) And because I especially love RDJ and went to see the movie Sherlock Holmes three times (yes, I really did – that movie kicked ass!), I was especially pleased to see that the movie used some quotes from various stories:

“It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely.” ["The Boscombe Valley Mystery"] (In the movie, said to Watson after Watson was going to leave Holmes to have lunch with Mary but decided to help Holmes instead) [67]

“Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” ["The Adventure of the Copper Beeches"] [165] (in the movie, yelled to various bobbies to get them out of the room so he could examine it further)

One thing I didn’t understand, and I will totally be talking to my father about this (my father is a huge Sherlock Holmes fan — not in today’s Internets definition of the word fan, and certainly not in today’s Comic-Con sense of the word, but Dad still has a very old copy of the complete Sherlock Holmes and I still remember him asking me to read them when I was growing up but didn’t want to because the book had no pictures in it) ANYWAY, what’s with Moriarty?

Here’s why I ask: growing up, all I knew about Sherlock Holmes was that his archenemy was Professor Moriarty. I just asked myself how I knew that — I almost think that there was a villain on one of my Disney afternoon cartoons whose name was a variation of Moriarty … but anyway, Dad would tell me that Moriarty was Holmes’s nemesis, and he was the only person to truly match Holmes’s intellect. So I, being the product of serial television more than anything else, expected Moriarty to show up continually throughout the series of mysteries. Instead, he’s only in one freaking story, called “The Final Problem,” which is where Sir Doyle tried to kill Holmes off so he could write about fairies and shit instead.

Where was the buildup? Where were the intermittent appearances? Because it’s not believable to hear that Moriarty was Holmes’s nemesis and only see him in one story, and even then, not even in person! That’s like, if on Lost, all you heard about for five seasons was that Jack’s nemesis was the Man in Black (and I mean, you heard about it even before you started watching the show; the promo for the pilot episode had something to do with the Man in Black, and I’m not talking about the Smoke Monster), and Jack went and did other things and fought other people and cried a lot, but you still knew that the Man in Black was his true intelligence match (and boy, is that thought sad), and then in the season finale of the fifth season, Jack runs off into the jungle to fight the Man in Black and doesn’t return, and Vincent brings back Jack’s backpack and gives it to Sawyer (because if Jack is Holmes, than Sawyer has to be Watson, screw Kate), and Sawyer goes back to the beach and tells everyone that the Man in Black and Jack killed each other. And then, the season premiere of the sixth season comes along, and Jack shows up at Sawyer’s tent and tells that, oh yeah, he and the Man in Black fought at the top of the waterfall, but he was able to keep himself from going over, but the Man in Black has disciples on the island who would kill him if they thought that Jack had survived, which is why he had to pretend he was dead for a while.

So anyway. As one of the lamest skits on SNL this past year says, “What’s up with that?!”

Overall, I know I’ll continue to read the canon!Holmes. After all, I am a masochist. I haven’t read The Hound of the Baskervilles yet, at least. But I think I’ll stick with Robert Downey Jr.’s interpretation of the famous detective, and more than anything, continue to savor Laurie R. King’s continuation of Holmes’s life.

[The list of stories in the collection is under the cut]

Grade for The Sherlock Holmes Mysteries: 3 stars

Fiction: “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll

I love Alice. I grew up on Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, and that and Sleeping Beauty are my two favorite Disney movies ever. When I went to Disneyland with my parents back in October, the two things I had to do were the Indiana Jones ride and the Alice in Wonderland ride (trivia fact: there is no Alice in Wonderland ride at Walt Disney World in Florida).

I picked this book up because I needed something I could read in its entirety on the trip down to Providence for New Year’s Eve. I’ve read this probably about four times before, and sure enough, by the time I got to Boston I was nearly done with “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” I finished “Through the Looking Glass” a couple of days later (as you can see, I’m again running behind).

I don’t know if it’s a residual childhood thing or what, but I continue to identify with Alice. She’s a dreamer, yet her dreams have a plot. It may be episodic, but Alice learns things as she goes through her travels – and, she ends up being smarter than kings and queens. As Lewis Carroll was, in real life, a maths professor at Oxford, there’s a weird sense of logic that runs through Wonderland and the Looking Glass World. The language he uses and the words he creates is full of the senses.

I’ll tell you something: back as a freshman in high school, we had to choose a poem to recite for my English class. My first choice was “The Walrus and the Carpenter,” but because I had watched Alice in Wonderland so often, I kept disintegrating into the song. My second choice – and the choice I am still known for today – is “I Am the Walrus” by the Beatles.

Alice will always have a special place in my heart. I’m not sure I can explain why. Maybe it’s because I give myself very good advice, and yet I very seldom follow it. She’s a girl trying so hard to be a grown-up, but after all that, she’s still seven (seven-and-a-half in “Through the Looking Glass”). *shrugs* I dunno. I guess I like the idea that you can be a grown-up and a wide-eyed innocent at the same time.

Fiction: “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies”

I finished reading PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES tonight, about four hours ago. In celebration, Sydney the Laptop has decided to play “Thriller.” Syd, I heartily approve and applaud your choice. Because there is, I swear to God, a “Thriller” reference in this book:

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!”

“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance. Why, I imagine even zombies could do it with some degree of success.” [22]

Anyway. Seth Grahame-Smith is totally my second pretend boyfriend (after Daniel Craig, of course). He did indeed keep about 90% of Jane Austen’s original novel, and simply added some scenes of supreme zombie violence. The plot, even, is exactly the same: Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn have five daughters, and Mrs. Bennet’s only goal in life is to see them married off, and hopefully well. Mr. Bingley and his sisters and friend Mr. Darcy arrive at Netherfield, a neighboring manse, and Mrs. Bennet pushes her eldest, Jane, into the arms of Bingley. Elizabeth is headstrong and independent, and is less than impressed with Darcy’s impertinence and pride.

The difference? Zombies.

Fiction: “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” by Thomas Hardy

It took me approximately twenty days to complete Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which makes me both sad and proud.  Proud, because it’s four hundred pages of relatively tiny print, and sad because … it’s only four hundred pages, it’s not like I was attempting to read The Mists of Avalon again.  Yeah; shoot me when that happens.

By the way: if you have never read Tess of the d’Urbervilles, I must warn you: there is no happy ending.  In the scheme of the novel itself, the ending is satisfying.  But happy?  No way.