And it’s a shame. Because in these sort of depressant books, you need humour to drag it from the darkest bowels of the reject bin. The only thing funny about this book was the poor attempts at a love story. Hardy was criticised by the public for his other work, and I think this is another of those poor books. Where’s the entertainment? The only interesting part was when Boldwood shot Troy. This is just a book of annoyance. The only thing I can congratulate Hardy on is his sexism. The portrayal of Bathsheba as some form of super-woman made me wonder if reading the book was actually the bright thing to do. After all, what proud man wants to read about some woman running a farm? Bossing everyone about, it’s inaccurate! It’s just stupid! Sanity is restored (Sort of) when Troy marries Bathsheba, but even that is scarred by the womaniser’s hastiness in marrying the jezebel.
“All romances end at marriage” quotes the Sergeant. Romance? There never was any romance! Lust is the key here. In my opinion, Troy just used Bathsheba to exploit her position. Marry her for her money. Get a nice discharge from the army, a farm, what could be better? Oh, more money. And the brilliance is, he has to take some money to help his ex-fiancé! Who dies in the next chapter! With his child! Not the most tear-jerking moment in the book, though. That award goes to the last page, which makes you cry with delight that you’ve finally seen the end of this travesty. The lady of the house isn’t too pleased at this, and their unhappy marriage comes to an abrupt halt when William Boldwood shoots Troy.
And so Frank Troy ends.
Shame really. He was the life and soul of the book. The last few chapters are indeed entertaining. There’s the suspense of wondering if Boldwood’s going to be executed or not. Then, to the disappointment of the bloodthirsty readers in the world, he gets off lightly. That’s what the book is full of: letdowns. Hardy’s architectural knowledge allows some beautifully described chapters to salvage the ‘novel’ in parts, but writers require the ability to keep that level of consistency in their writing to write a brilliant novel. And that is what the novel lacks. At certain times, dialogue isn’t always at its best. The mental imagery of the scenes are breathtaking- that’s what Hardy’s descriptions do for you. The dialogue, however, destroys that. Too vague. Too boring. Repartees, puns, wittiness is what’s needed, especially in the case of the rustics, and these three examples are missing throughout the majority of the book.
In novels, I hate repetition. Seeing the word ‘said’ after every spoken word becomes tedious. Missing are the ‘stated’ and ‘voiced’. Interesting ways to say ‘said’ benefit books more than you would think. And that’s what niggles away at the book. ‘Said’ is like saying ‘nice’ to describe things. It’s simple, and very dull. It may be petty, but these petty things can improve the novel, and stop this review being so negative.
Far From the Madding Crowd is anything but that. It belongs with the mad crowd. Sane people wouldn’t pick it up. I wouldn’t advise you to buy, or even contemplate reading this book. For the romanticists among us, it’s great. For the non-romantic types, steer clear of this ‘novel’. You’ll just be saddened that you paid good money for the book. Why pay good money when you can read this review? I’ve told you what happens. Learn by my mistakes. The enjoyment factor is crucial for this book’s survival, and, sadly, the factor is reading ‘0’.
