You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.67 AVERAGE
3.67 AVERAGE
In a nutshell, it was melancholy. At the end of the day, I see no purpose at all for the life Tess had lived; she was a victim of circumstances, but paid dearly for things that were not her fault. I think it aptly portrays the pathetic situation of being a woman, and a "not-proper" one at that. Still, really really sad; literally breaks the heart and makes one ponder as to the meaning of our existence.
Would advice to read it leisurely though. It is a classic that ought to be read on the eves under a tree. Not a book to be rushed.
Would advice to read it leisurely though. It is a classic that ought to be read on the eves under a tree. Not a book to be rushed.
Some of my favorite novels are the ones with endings that just break your heart. Tess of the D'Urbervilles will break your heart - but it's also gorgeously written, with a moving condemnation of societal double standards we still live with today. It's a super interesting read in the lens of the MeToo era to realize how far - and also not far - we've come in 128+ years since this novel was written.
Here be spoilers.
Tess reminded me a lot of Lily Bart in The House of Mirth (Edith Wharton...another author who writes gorgeous tragedies). Both are poor and must work within the unwritten norms of their societies if they want to better their positions. Both are abandoned by the men they love, only to see those men come to their senses too late. And both are more innocent than those around them chose to believe. But while Lily is observant and cunning and understands perfectly the rules of society she's dealing with, Tess is naive. "How could I be expected to know? I was a child when I left this house four months ago," she cries to her mother. "Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me?"
Tess is a victim of self-shaming from the get-go. She believes she's responsible for killing their only horse on the road, when she was only driving the cart because her father was too drunk to do it himself. She is raped and impregnated by her rich "cousin" Alec D'Urberville, who uses the classic playbook of the sexual predator we still see today. Already in a position of power (in this case, in control of her livelihood), he is incessant in his advances, ignoring her denials, and by the end of the book, puts the responsibility on her, telling her it's her fault she's so beguiling he can't help himself. She spends the whole book paying for her "sins," believing herself at fault, the worst part being when the man she truly loves finds out and believes it too. When we see victim-shaming today ("why didn't you fight?" "Look how she was dressed," "Why did she go to that party anyway?") we can see we may not be as evolved as we think.
Hardy has a way of creating a rich atmosphere, setting his scenes beautifully to pull you into his world (who knew milking cows could seem so romantic?). The story moves surprisingly fast. I found I had to keep reading to learn what happens to Tess. If I have minor qualms, some of his descriptions can ramble a bit, and D'Urberville has a bit of a moustache-twirling-villian feel. Overall, though, Hardy has created a lovely, tragic book that will stick with me for a while.
Here be spoilers.
Tess reminded me a lot of Lily Bart in The House of Mirth (Edith Wharton...another author who writes gorgeous tragedies). Both are poor and must work within the unwritten norms of their societies if they want to better their positions. Both are abandoned by the men they love, only to see those men come to their senses too late. And both are more innocent than those around them chose to believe. But while Lily is observant and cunning and understands perfectly the rules of society she's dealing with, Tess is naive. "How could I be expected to know? I was a child when I left this house four months ago," she cries to her mother. "Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me?"
Tess is a victim of self-shaming from the get-go. She believes she's responsible for killing their only horse on the road, when she was only driving the cart because her father was too drunk to do it himself. She is raped and impregnated by her rich "cousin" Alec D'Urberville, who uses the classic playbook of the sexual predator we still see today. Already in a position of power (in this case, in control of her livelihood), he is incessant in his advances, ignoring her denials, and by the end of the book, puts the responsibility on her, telling her it's her fault she's so beguiling he can't help himself. She spends the whole book paying for her "sins," believing herself at fault, the worst part being when the man she truly loves finds out and believes it too. When we see victim-shaming today ("why didn't you fight?" "Look how she was dressed," "Why did she go to that party anyway?") we can see we may not be as evolved as we think.
Hardy has a way of creating a rich atmosphere, setting his scenes beautifully to pull you into his world (who knew milking cows could seem so romantic?). The story moves surprisingly fast. I found I had to keep reading to learn what happens to Tess. If I have minor qualms, some of his descriptions can ramble a bit, and D'Urberville has a bit of a moustache-twirling-villian feel. Overall, though, Hardy has created a lovely, tragic book that will stick with me for a while.
Embora decepcionada com o final, não há como negar a magnifíca escrita de Hardy. Um clássico que vale a pena ser lido.
Spoilers be nigh.
I read this in high school (sort of), which may explain why I hated it so passionately. I think the only thing I ever read in school that I didn't hate with a passion was Romeo and Juliet (and I was apparently very lucky about that – I understand school usually does a number on Shakespeare for people, too). I remember reading R&J upside-down in the living room armchair, enraptured by and a little drunk on the language. (The latter might have been partly because I was upside down, of course.) All I remember about Tess is the sick feeling of depression when I finished. (Which, given the circumstances, means that this was a remarkably poor choice of books for me at that moment in my life. Why did I never have a decent English teacher? Where was Robin Williams when I needed him?) I remember that, and had a vague presentiment that Tess would hang at the end of the book, but I was fixed on the idea that she must kill herself – somehow I completely forgot about the murder of Alec D'Urberville. And never have I been more delighted by a bloodstain in my life. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I chose audio format for this buddy read with Kim and Hayes and Simran and Jemidar (thank you, my friends!), and I'm glad I did. Not only do I think the world of Simon Vance (whose voice for Angel Clare almost seduced me into forgetting how worthless he was and made me want to forgive him. Almost), but the dialect in print was very likely one reason I loathed this book lo! those many years ago. Vance's compassionate reading was very likely one big reason I did not loathe this book this time. His feminine voices aren't the cringe-worthy things many male narrators produce – his Tess, light and with just the right amount of accent for whatever circumstance, became Tess for me.
The men in this book remind me of Ricky's film about the plastic bag in American Beauty, without the beauty: a gust of wind, and the bag soars up; the air stills and the bag drops. A breath, and it skitters to one side; a draft, and it slides to the right. Every change in the wind sends these men in another direction, with another disposition – ecstatic, righteous, lust-filled, angry, depressed… sometimes several of these in one chapter. Alec D'Urberville seems to go from lusty jackass to proselytizing jackass in the blink of an eye, converting like an impressionable child based more on the demeanor of Parson Clare than on what he said – and then, of course, one look at Tess flips him right back again like a light switch: up = hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, down = creepy, creepy rapist. Angel Clare … Oh, where to begin? His treatment of Tess – and then his change of mind, and then his change back, and then back again, and his offhand devastation of Izz Huett … his flip-flopping makes your average politician look like a model of unswerving determination. The man up and sailed to Brazil on the strength of a travel agency sign. Brazil. It's not like going to Brighton.
There is one man in the tale who has a more consistent character: Tess's father. He's a lazy stupid drunk, and that never changes. He seizes on a straw in the wind to – in his and his wife's minds at least – lend countenance to his innate laziness. His concentration never wavers from the skellintons in the ancient tombs and all that is, he thinks, due him as the descendant of same. He's an ass, and worthless as a father, a husband, and a human being, and I hate him deeply. I think I hate him more than the other two, even.
The person I don't hate, and this shocks me, is Tess. Poor Tess. She didn't want to be put into the position her parents shoved her into – which resulted in her rape. She certainly didn't want anything to do with Alec D'Urberville, but unfortunately she fell asleep, poor little bint, and unfortunately he was a thorough-going bastard. Throughout the book she does the best she can to prevent situations – but it's an ineffectual best, and she is overruled and overpowered and left bleeding by the worthless men in her life, father, "cousin", beloved.
There were several aspects of her situation that I was surprised at, because it was as if Hardy smoothed the road for her a bit. I was surprised when the Durbeyfield neighbors did not shun Tess after the birth of the baby; I fully expected her to be spat on. They were not wholly forgiving (as witness the family's eviction after the father dies), but much better than I expected, to her face at least. I was shocked when the baby died – I fully expected him to be a growing millstone around her neck, much harder to get past than a history including a dead child. I was surprised once more when, Izz and Retty and Marian having all also fallen in love with Angel Clare, they decided that they did not and could not hate Tess for being the chosen one, and – whatever damage they did her accidentally – all remained her friends throughout. Even Clare's parents became more kindly disposed to her (which is made into a point against them, in a satirical way, but would have been a good thing for Tess if she could have taken advantage of it). It seems to me that a great many authors would have chosen to isolate Tess, make it their poor beleaguered lass against the world, saved only by the love of a weak man who then also turns away from her; that Hardy chose a more realistic route is a huge point in his favor.
There are times when it's nice to have a faulty memory. I re-read this book as if it were the first time, and I'm glad of it – I had no idea how everything would turn out, and I was freed to hope for the best even while I (with that one partial memory in mind) feared the worst: I did know it was not a happily-ever-after book, but the details were drowned in the past. The language, while slightly purple in places, was beautiful; the story genuinely moved me. I could not be more amazed. (Buddy reads FTW!)
I read this in high school (sort of), which may explain why I hated it so passionately. I think the only thing I ever read in school that I didn't hate with a passion was Romeo and Juliet (and I was apparently very lucky about that – I understand school usually does a number on Shakespeare for people, too). I remember reading R&J upside-down in the living room armchair, enraptured by and a little drunk on the language. (The latter might have been partly because I was upside down, of course.) All I remember about Tess is the sick feeling of depression when I finished. (Which, given the circumstances, means that this was a remarkably poor choice of books for me at that moment in my life. Why did I never have a decent English teacher? Where was Robin Williams when I needed him?) I remember that, and had a vague presentiment that Tess would hang at the end of the book, but I was fixed on the idea that she must kill herself – somehow I completely forgot about the murder of Alec D'Urberville. And never have I been more delighted by a bloodstain in my life. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I chose audio format for this buddy read with Kim and Hayes and Simran and Jemidar (thank you, my friends!), and I'm glad I did. Not only do I think the world of Simon Vance (whose voice for Angel Clare almost seduced me into forgetting how worthless he was and made me want to forgive him. Almost), but the dialect in print was very likely one reason I loathed this book lo! those many years ago. Vance's compassionate reading was very likely one big reason I did not loathe this book this time. His feminine voices aren't the cringe-worthy things many male narrators produce – his Tess, light and with just the right amount of accent for whatever circumstance, became Tess for me.
The men in this book remind me of Ricky's film about the plastic bag in American Beauty, without the beauty: a gust of wind, and the bag soars up; the air stills and the bag drops. A breath, and it skitters to one side; a draft, and it slides to the right. Every change in the wind sends these men in another direction, with another disposition – ecstatic, righteous, lust-filled, angry, depressed… sometimes several of these in one chapter. Alec D'Urberville seems to go from lusty jackass to proselytizing jackass in the blink of an eye, converting like an impressionable child based more on the demeanor of Parson Clare than on what he said – and then, of course, one look at Tess flips him right back again like a light switch: up = hellfire-and-brimstone preacher, down = creepy, creepy rapist. Angel Clare … Oh, where to begin? His treatment of Tess – and then his change of mind, and then his change back, and then back again, and his offhand devastation of Izz Huett … his flip-flopping makes your average politician look like a model of unswerving determination. The man up and sailed to Brazil on the strength of a travel agency sign. Brazil. It's not like going to Brighton.
There is one man in the tale who has a more consistent character: Tess's father. He's a lazy stupid drunk, and that never changes. He seizes on a straw in the wind to – in his and his wife's minds at least – lend countenance to his innate laziness. His concentration never wavers from the skellintons in the ancient tombs and all that is, he thinks, due him as the descendant of same. He's an ass, and worthless as a father, a husband, and a human being, and I hate him deeply. I think I hate him more than the other two, even.
The person I don't hate, and this shocks me, is Tess. Poor Tess. She didn't want to be put into the position her parents shoved her into – which resulted in her rape. She certainly didn't want anything to do with Alec D'Urberville, but unfortunately she fell asleep, poor little bint, and unfortunately he was a thorough-going bastard. Throughout the book she does the best she can to prevent situations – but it's an ineffectual best, and she is overruled and overpowered and left bleeding by the worthless men in her life, father, "cousin", beloved.
There were several aspects of her situation that I was surprised at, because it was as if Hardy smoothed the road for her a bit. I was surprised when the Durbeyfield neighbors did not shun Tess after the birth of the baby; I fully expected her to be spat on. They were not wholly forgiving (as witness the family's eviction after the father dies), but much better than I expected, to her face at least. I was shocked when the baby died – I fully expected him to be a growing millstone around her neck, much harder to get past than a history including a dead child. I was surprised once more when, Izz and Retty and Marian having all also fallen in love with Angel Clare, they decided that they did not and could not hate Tess for being the chosen one, and – whatever damage they did her accidentally – all remained her friends throughout. Even Clare's parents became more kindly disposed to her (which is made into a point against them, in a satirical way, but would have been a good thing for Tess if she could have taken advantage of it). It seems to me that a great many authors would have chosen to isolate Tess, make it their poor beleaguered lass against the world, saved only by the love of a weak man who then also turns away from her; that Hardy chose a more realistic route is a huge point in his favor.
There are times when it's nice to have a faulty memory. I re-read this book as if it were the first time, and I'm glad of it – I had no idea how everything would turn out, and I was freed to hope for the best even while I (with that one partial memory in mind) feared the worst: I did know it was not a happily-ever-after book, but the details were drowned in the past. The language, while slightly purple in places, was beautiful; the story genuinely moved me. I could not be more amazed. (Buddy reads FTW!)
This is not an easy read. Not because of the language or subtext, but because of what happens to Tess, a girl 'in love with her own ruin'. And to say I enjoyed this book would be wrong - I am not a sadist. But I loved Tess, as if she were my own child. I feel as if I raised her, because no one else was there to do so, and watching her character blossom in the face of such adversity filled me with so much admiration. I suppose that is what makes the penultimate chapter so powerful: "I am ready".
This novel truly sheds a painfully bright light into the mind-set of Victorian England - a rejection of romanticism if I ever saw one:
- Her beauty becomes her liability rather than an asset.
- The oppressive hand of Victorian society - she is not free to follow her heart without the guilt of a past that she played no part in and tradition that she must adhere to
- Everything you want is right in front of you, and it’s the subjugation of society that blinds you to it or forbids you from it
- History and medieval legend, Pagan and Christian references are consistently interwoven.
- The only way the dream can become real is through death, which itself makes the dream impossible
- Extremely dense and multidimensional, it is almost a Shakespearian blend of bleak anti-romantic vision and genuine tragedy
Tess has been a breath of fresh air in my literary choices lately. It is such a tragic, heartbreaking story, because tragedy isn't caused by her: it was simply just her fate.
Quotes:
- ‘And it was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity.’
- ‘The pair were, in truth, but the ashes of their former fires.’
- 'With these natures, corporeal presence is something less appealing than corporeal absence; the latter creating an ideal presence that conveniently drops the defects of the real.’
- ‘In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire.’
- ‘The greater the sinner, the greater the saint’
This novel truly sheds a painfully bright light into the mind-set of Victorian England - a rejection of romanticism if I ever saw one:
- Her beauty becomes her liability rather than an asset.
- The oppressive hand of Victorian society - she is not free to follow her heart without the guilt of a past that she played no part in and tradition that she must adhere to
- Everything you want is right in front of you, and it’s the subjugation of society that blinds you to it or forbids you from it
- History and medieval legend, Pagan and Christian references are consistently interwoven.
- The only way the dream can become real is through death, which itself makes the dream impossible
- Extremely dense and multidimensional, it is almost a Shakespearian blend of bleak anti-romantic vision and genuine tragedy
Tess has been a breath of fresh air in my literary choices lately. It is such a tragic, heartbreaking story, because tragedy isn't caused by her: it was simply just her fate.
Quotes:
- ‘And it was the touch of the imperfect upon the would-be perfect that gave the sweetness, because it was that which gave the humanity.’
- ‘The pair were, in truth, but the ashes of their former fires.’
- 'With these natures, corporeal presence is something less appealing than corporeal absence; the latter creating an ideal presence that conveniently drops the defects of the real.’
- ‘In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire.’
- ‘The greater the sinner, the greater the saint’
dark
sad
slow-paced
I cried three times. The tragedy! The characters! That ending! Absolute masterpiece and definitely earned a spot among my favorite books of all time.
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No