Sunday Salon and having finished the latest from Peter Carey, His Illegal Self, this morning, I've come over all Hardy-esque in an attempt to shake off the mosquitoes and ticks from the hippie commune in Queensland. I'll let all thoughts on Peter Carey simmer and settle while I get in the mood for Claire Tomalin's up-coming talk at Peninsular Arts on Thomas Hardy, The Time-Torn Man.
The sun is shining and I have made a fine start on Under the Greenwood Tree. It's actually easier to list the Hardy's I have read rather than the ones I haven't, and how and why I've left this one quite so long I've no idea.
I am laughing and loving every word of the bucolic, rural living of the Mellstock Parish Choir. The Christmas Party at the Tranters has had me in fits, not least the dancing Mrs Crumpler
'a heavy woman, who, for some reason which nobody ever thought worth enquiry, danced in a clean apron, moved so slowly through the figure that her feet were never seen - conveying to imaginative minds the idea that she rolled on castors.'
I'm so glad I picked this one up and not Jude the Obscure and everyone, well two people this morning have told me The Mayor of Casterbridge is Hardy at his best and I haven't read that one either.
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