Thomas Hardy, from “The Hand of Ethelberta” wr. c. 1876
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Thomas Hardy, from Far From the Madding Crowd
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She was a sort of celestial person, who owed her being to poetry.
Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles (1891)
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I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
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“While many things are too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.” — Thomas Hardy
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Tess of the D'Urbervilles (2008)
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"but nobody did come, because nobody does"
because nobody does
you think "this is the moment. this is the moment when the hero appears and I am saved"
you think "this is the moment when the music swells"
someone will pull me out of the fire. out of the crashing waves. out from under the knife.
and you wait. and you wait. but life has no narrative. it holds no morals. it needs no heroes.
“and under the crushing recognition of his gigantic error, Jude continued to wish himself out of the world.”
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"The Darkling Thrush"
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
By Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles
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"AVEBURY" | circa 1944
BILL BRANDT aft. THOMAS HARDY
[gelatin silver print | 13 1/4 × 11 1/4"]
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She has too much poetry in her.
Thomas Hardy, The Hand of Ethelberta (1876)
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The sky was clear - remarkably clear - and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body timed by a common pulse.
Thomas Hardy, Far From The Madding Crowd
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The trees overhead deepened the gloom of the hour, and they dripped sadly upon him, impressing him with forebodings - illogical forebodings; for though he knew that he loved her he also knew that he could not be more to her than he was.
Thomas Hardy, from 'Jude the Obscure'
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