Dearest Thomas Hardy:
I understand that you are a 19th-century English novelist of some renown. Unfortunately, I write to report that I will not read your 1894 masterpiece Jude the Obscure in whole or in part anytime soon.
As you may be aware, I am a visionary artist currently touring musical venues in the Northeastern and Midwestern United States of America. Since you lived in fin de siècle England and shuffled off this mortal coil in 1928, you may not be familiar with the geography, diverse peoples, and/or interstate highways of the U.S.A. circa 2008. Let me assure you – in the 21st century, hundreds of miles of well-paved, two-lane roads separate the large American metropoli (or, as my publicist and booking agent call them, “major markets”) in which my six-piece performing ensemble seeks to sell my current record, gain critical acclaim, and pocket our percentage of ticket-sale revenue surrendered by unwitting proletarians willing to pay to regard our aesthetics. Though modern motor vehicles may travel up to 70 m.p.h. on these “superhighways,” the great distances between American cities offer ample opportunity to meditate, consume salty snacks, and peruse reading material while traveling. To fill this dead time, I brought a copy of Jude the Obscure, planning to find amusement in the 403 pages of your manuscript and a 9-page afterword penned by the enigmatic scholar “A. Alvarez.” But, Mr. Hardy (I dare not call you Thomas!), I must admit (and am ashamed to admit it!): I cannot read your book.
“The schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry.” So reads the first line of the novel that D.H. Lawrence called “a constant revelation…a great background, vital and vivid.” Indeed, this opening is compelling. Who is this schoolmaster? What village is he leaving? Why does everybody seem sorry? Yet, the second line – “The miller at Cresscombe lent him the small white tilted cart and horse to carry his goods to the city of his destination, about twenty miles off, such a vehicle proving of quite sufficient size for the departing teacher’s effects” – is, if I may be frank, a killjoy. There is simply so much to keep up with! The “miller” (what exactly does a miller do, again?), the”tilted cart” (what’s a tilted cart?), the “city of his destination” (a redundant prepositional phrase, no?), the “vehicle proving of quite sufficient size” (such an awkward construction!)…who can hope to keep this straight? I will not embarrass you with further analysis. Suffice it to say that I quickly closed your book and picked up a copy of Entertainment Weekly magazine.
If, in the afterlife, reading material is available, I recommend that you take a look at V.C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic (Simon & Schuster, 1979). This book will give you a sense of the modern reader’s taste and, should you embark on a new project, ensure your continued success.
Sincerely,
Edie Sedgwick
Edie Sedgwick, who is on tour, played Buffalo last night and plays Chicago tonight.
If Entertainment Weekly is really your thing but you want to give Hardy another go, I recommend Tess of the D’Urbervilles or The Mayor of Casterbridge. Much less intense than Jude and very sexy by Victorian standards. The Woodlanders is much less famous but a very good read as well.
November 13, 2008 at 3:17 pmHey, everyone, I’m ernest, and I have a big hardon for Hardy. I call it my Hardy-on. Even Melville said, “ernest is a giant twat.”
November 18, 2008 at 11:44 pmEveryone knows it is you, Ed, silly ass, impostor.
You seem pissed off.
November 19, 2008 at 11:46 am
Comparing Hardy to you, I stress ‘you’, Edie, is like comparing a bar of gold to a big turd, respectively. Even Faulkner said, “Between Hardy and Edie, I’ll choose Hardy.”
November 13, 2008 at 2:36 pmSo there.