![]() ![]() There is something so profanely ironic about Hardy setting such unabashed tragedies within these idyllic pseudo-utopian worlds. ![]() It also exists in a kind of bubble, with only the barest of interruptions-all of Wessex is like that, of course, but Egdon Heath seems isolated even from wider Wessex itself. Hardy wants you to understand that this is the most beautiful green place in all the beautiful green places in England-and unlike the rest of England, in Wessex it only rains when Hardy needs pathetic fallacy. The novel opens with an exhaustive description of the picturesque Egdon Heath and its bucolic pre–Industrial Revolution furze-cutters and reddlemen. The Return of the Native is firmly in the middle of Hardy’s career as a novelist, and it shows. If I was worried I’ve been ploughing through Hardy’s novels too fast, I shouldn’t be: my last review was over a year ago! Time to rectify that! It’s also a nice break from the YA/SF-heavy binge I’ve been on (and to which I will likely return shortly!). Does anyone know what love is? Haddaway has been zero help, by the way. I’m not sure Thomas Hardy knows what love is. ![]()
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