oh, for the love of...
Again unlike Austen and what [Griff] Rhys Jones [who has made a documentary about Thomas Hardy] calls her “dry control of the page”, Hardy felt it vital that his stories shouldn’t appear contrived because he believed his “duty was to tell the truth about the world and about human emotions” which means his books “have this incredibly modern feel”. “Tess is a great example of this,” he adds, “Because it’s about sex.”
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/09/03/nosplit/bvtvfeature03.xml
(link from Austenblog)
*incoherent splutter*
I don't know who's at fault here, the writer of the article or Jones himself, since I obviously didn't hear the interview and don't know how these quotes were edited together, but I'm just so *tired* of this stupid opposition of Austen and "human emotions." I have no problems with Hardy (okay, so Angel Clare makes me want to beat him with pointy, pointy sticks and Tess as a whole tends to make me livid with the unfairness of it, but I quite like The Mayor of Casterbridge), and I'm looking forward to the eventual day when this adaptation of Tess shows up on PBS, but this is still a cheap shot and an untrue one.
Oh, here. Just because I can, the bit right after Box Hill:
"While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome -- then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgement, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to show a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed -- almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of his representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
"Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were."
I don't know about Griff Rhys Jones, but that bit always makes *me* sad. That word "conceal" is crucial; Austen takes a lot of flack for writing characters who *do* try to conceal their emotions, who abide by social codes; this isn't a world where emotions are given absolute free rein. That doesn't mean that they aren't there--unless you are Marianne Dashwood, and believe that an emotion one is capable of concealing must be no real emotion at all. But here, in this passage, we get to see the public and the private Emma juxtaposed with each other, and for me anyway, that only heightens the contrast, revealing the depth of the emotion when Emma doesn't bother to check it--just like Mr. Knightley's completely disordered speech, his "broken and subdued accent" when he tries to comfort Emma (believing her to have been in love with Frank Churchill) tells us how strongly he feels when we compare it to his usual composed and confident tones. I'm not sure who decided that constant exhibition, even to the point of melodrama, is the only measure of "human emotions," but I'm so over it.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/09/03/nosplit/bvtvfeature03.xml
(link from Austenblog)
*incoherent splutter*
I don't know who's at fault here, the writer of the article or Jones himself, since I obviously didn't hear the interview and don't know how these quotes were edited together, but I'm just so *tired* of this stupid opposition of Austen and "human emotions." I have no problems with Hardy (okay, so Angel Clare makes me want to beat him with pointy, pointy sticks and Tess as a whole tends to make me livid with the unfairness of it, but I quite like The Mayor of Casterbridge), and I'm looking forward to the eventual day when this adaptation of Tess shows up on PBS, but this is still a cheap shot and an untrue one.
Oh, here. Just because I can, the bit right after Box Hill:
"While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome -- then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgement, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to show a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed -- almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of his representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
"Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were."
I don't know about Griff Rhys Jones, but that bit always makes *me* sad. That word "conceal" is crucial; Austen takes a lot of flack for writing characters who *do* try to conceal their emotions, who abide by social codes; this isn't a world where emotions are given absolute free rein. That doesn't mean that they aren't there--unless you are Marianne Dashwood, and believe that an emotion one is capable of concealing must be no real emotion at all. But here, in this passage, we get to see the public and the private Emma juxtaposed with each other, and for me anyway, that only heightens the contrast, revealing the depth of the emotion when Emma doesn't bother to check it--just like Mr. Knightley's completely disordered speech, his "broken and subdued accent" when he tries to comfort Emma (believing her to have been in love with Frank Churchill) tells us how strongly he feels when we compare it to his usual composed and confident tones. I'm not sure who decided that constant exhibition, even to the point of melodrama, is the only measure of "human emotions," but I'm so over it.