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‘The warfare of our higher and our lower selves’ : an analysis of the relationship between mental illness… O'Connor, Kate Suzanne 2012

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‘The warfare of our higher and our lower selves’: an analysis of the relationship between mental illness and artistic creativity through a case study of Thomas Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies  by Kate Suzanne O’Connor B.A., The University of British Columbia, 2009  A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  MASTER OF ARTS in The Faculty of Graduate Studies (English)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver)  April 2012  © Kate Suzanne O’Connor, 2012  	
    	
    Abstract In July of 2008, scholar Tony Fincham offered a retrospective diagnosis of cyclothymia, a milder variant of manic-depression, in explanation of Thomas Hardy’s seemingly cyclical bouts of depression and mania. In preparation of the depressive component of this diagnosis, Fincham consulted four sources - one that fully documents letters written by Thomas Hardy, two that partially document Hardy’s notebook entries, and one that publishes scholarly essays on the author and his works. Fincham located a total of forty incidents within these four sources that describe Hardy as suffering from episodes of depression. Conversely, in an effort to locate instances of mania, Fincham collected only three examples from two different sources, one in a letter written by Florence Hardy and two in Michael Millgate’s 1982 Thomas Hardy: A Biography. This study is useful as it provides an introductory explanation for the mood swings so prevalent in letters and accounts of Hardy’s life, however, having only consulted five sources, it is most definitely not a thorough analysis of the extent to which Hardy may have been suffering from cyclothymia. This thesis hopes to provide both a reliable and exhaustive database of Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies while also exploring the hypothetical links between mental illness and artistic creativity through a case study of Thomas Hardy. I have located every piece of writing available to me that relates to Thomas Hardy, written either to, from, about, or by Hardy himself, and have analysed these entries through the lens of Kay Redfield Jamison’s research on manic-depression. Because retrospective diagnosis is hypothetical in nature, the examples I provide in my ‘Bibliographic Survey,’ the title for my database, are inherently hypothetical as well. Nonetheless, valuable research can be conducted in the field of biography studies, and it  	
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    is my hope that this database will foster such kinds of further research on Thomas Hardy. The database I have created may allow for the future study of the ways in which a particular determining factor, cyclothymia in this instance, can be said to contribute to our understanding of what Thomas Hardy’s works mean.  	
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    Table of Contents Abstract........................................................................................................................................ii Table of Contents ....................................................................................................................... iv Acknowledgements ..................................................................................................................... v Dedication ................................................................................................................................... vi Introduction................................................................................................................................. 1 Bibliography .............................................................................................................................. 28 Purpose............................................................................................................................ 28 Cyclothymia .................................................................................................................... 28 Survey Categories ..................................................................................................................... 30 Mania .............................................................................................................................. 30 Depression....................................................................................................................... 35 Morbidity ........................................................................................................................ 37 Affective Aesthetic Expression....................................................................................... 39 Explanatory Key.................................................................................................. 42 Cautionary Note .................................................................................................. 43 Bibliographic Survey ................................................................................................................ 44 Epigraph .................................................................................................................................. 217 Index......................................................................................................................................... 218 Works Cited............................................................................................................................. 220  	
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    Acknowledgements I offer my sincerest gratitude to the faculty, staff and my fellow students in the English Department at the University of British Columbia, who every day inspire me to continue my work in this field. I am most indebted to Dr. Scott MacKenzie, without whose attention to detail, valuable guidance and direction this project never would have been possible. I am also grateful to Dr. Deanna Kreisel, whose thoughtful insight taught me to think more deeply about the implications of this study. Ten years ago, my Uncle John listened as I described and recited my favourite poem, and afterwards he encouraged me to pursue an education in the field of English Literature. I am forever grateful to him for helping me recognize my passion at such a young age, and so I would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge him. Finally, and without doubt most importantly, very special thanks are owed to my parents, whose undying support and genuine interest in my education has driven me to chase a goal that at times felt out of reach.  	
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    Dedication  To my family – those who have left this world and those who are still here.  	
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    Introduction Few English writers have achieved recognition for being as accomplished in the areas of both novel writing and poetry as Thomas Hardy. His passion for poetry lasted the duration of his life, epitomized by the fact that he continued producing poems until the age of eighty-eight; he believed “that if he liked, a man could go on writing till his physical strength gave out” (Gibson 42). Hardy claimed that the practice of writing poetry had a “sustaining power” (Millgate Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy vol. 4, 213) for him, namely because of its ability to express “emotional enthusiasms” (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 512). These ‘emotional enthusiasms’ typically took shape in the form of melancholia, and therefore scholars often identify Hardy as a man who suffered from depression (Gittings 1978 & 1979, Millgate 1982 & 2004, Seymour-Smith 1994, Turner 1998, Tomalin 2006, Pite 2006). According to biographical research, however, Hardy did exhibit subtle instances of excitement and enthusiasm, and these seemingly happier moments have often gone unnoticed in Hardyan scholarship. Michael Millgate, an avid researcher and biographer of Thomas Hardy, briefly touches upon this more understated facet of Hardy’s personality when he states, “His darkest depressions were […] capable not only of coexisting with outward geniality but also of alternating with periods of actual cheerfulness” (Millgate Thomas Hardy: A Biography 1982, 381). Similarly, Tony Fincham, a General Practitioner, has recently introduced the cyclothymic condition to Hardyan scholarship through his medico-literary analysis of Hardy’s novels, titled Hardy the Physician: Medical Aspects of the Wessex Tradition. In my research, a comparison of the biographical dates that portray Hardy as experiencing periods of heightened emotion with the manuscript dates of the novels and  	
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    poems he produced on those dates seems to reveal a relationship in which his literary work bears traces of his experienced emotions. The question arises, then, whether or not Hardy’s moments of artistic creativity are resultant because of his changes in mood. If so, can we go so far as to question whether these shifts in mood are a result of an illness or disorder? Or, conversely, is there no measurable relationship between Hardy’s temperament and his literary production? The discussion surrounding the relationship between artistic creativity and mental illness is remarkably longstanding and equally as controversial, a topic this thesis will attempt to cautiously and responsibly address through a case study of Thomas Hardy. Scholars argue that this debate dates back to Aristotle’s claim that “no great genius has ever existed without a strain of madness” (Kyaga et al. 373). Grecian myths, particularly the Dionysian myths that depict fits of frenzied violence and madness followed by instances of creation and vitality, seemingly reflect Aristotle’s belief in a relationship between mental illness and artistic creativity. Kay Redfield Jamison, an American clinical psychologist who herself suffers from manic-depression, touches on this union of mental illness and artistic creativity through these Dionysian myths in her widely acclaimed (Steptoe 1998, Bech 2000, Lloyd-Evans et al. 2006) Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament. According to Jamison, Dionysus, god of wine, was afflicted with madness and therefore episodically subject to both great ecstasies and suffering, often resulting in an infliction of savage brutality on those around him. The rituals of worship set up in his honour came to symbolize the emergence of new life born from chaos, brutality, and destruction. As Dionysus’ bouts of frenzied violence were episodic, the rituals that followed brought with them a sense of  	
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    “creative inspiration” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 50) and vitality. These rituals are cyclic in nature, and it is precisely this cyclical quality that interests this thesis most. Reference to this recurring cyclical behaviour surfaces in the medical realm in the first century CE when Greek physicians suggested a connection between mania and melancholia, exemplified in Aretaeus of Cappadocia’s book, On the Aetiology and Symptomatology of Chronic Diseases, when he states, “I think that melancholia is the beginning and a part of mania. The development of mania is really a worsening of the disease rather than a change into another disease” (Millon 800). Aretaeus takes this association further by explaining, “the patient who previously was gay, euphoric, and hyperactive suddenly has a tendency to melancholy; he becomes, at the end of the attack, languid, sad” (Goodwin and Ghaemi 678). Avicenna, a Persian polymath who lived from 980-1037 AD, extends this cyclical quality of manic-depression into one of continuous fluidity, stating that, “the material which is the effective producer of mania is of the same nature as that which produces melancholia” (Goodwin and Ghaemi 678). The discussion surrounding the recurring cycles of mania and melancholia is seemingly lost in scholarship until roughly 1854, when Jean Falret describes a “circular disorder,” (la folie circulaire), in which “this succession of mania and melancholia manifests itself with continuity and in a manner almost regular” (Goodwin and Ghaemi 678). Jules Baillarger offers a similar diagnosis that very same year of “double insanity,” or la folie double forme, here emphasizing, “manic and depressive episodes are not different attacks but rather different stages of the same attack” (Goodwin and Ghaemi 678). Despite these advances, most “clinical observers continued to regard mania and melancholia as separate entities” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 7) and, consequently, this concept of a  	
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    consistently cyclical disorder is abandoned until Emil Kraepelin, a German psychiatrist, argues that the term ‘manic-depressive’ is one that encompasses the “circular psychoses” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 7) in 1899. Kraepelin’s central insight – “that all of the recurrent major mood disorders belonged under the rubric of manic-depressive illness” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 7-8) – is still the model under which most psychologists operate to date. By grouping several affective disorders under the category of ‘manic-depression,’ Kraepelin’s model allows for the creation of a spectrum of mood disorders, and it is on this spectrum that cyclothymia, the illness that concerns this thesis, lies. The manic-depressive spectrum functions as a way to conceptualize the relationship between “full-blown affective illness […] and milder states or characteristics that might be construed as temperament” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 19). Kraepelin’s invention of the manic-depressive spectrum, later termed the ‘affective spectrum,’ allows for the inclusion of the milder cyclothymic temperament, consequently casting the subtler cycles of manic and depressive states as an illness rather than a facet of one’s personality. Before delving into Fincham’s previously described diagnosis, perhaps a brief discussion and definition of cyclothymia might be useful to my reader here. Cyclothymia is a milder variant of manic-depressive illness and is characterized by “pronounced but not totally debilitating changes in mood, behaviour, thinking, sleep, and energy levels” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 13). Kraepelin’s previously described manic-depressive spectrum characterizes the cyclothymic temperament as a condition that involves “fluctuations of the psychic state to the manic or to the depressive side” (Jamison ManicDepressive Illness, 83). The characteristics of the cyclothymic temperament are perhaps best captured when Kraepelin states,  	
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   These are people who constantly oscillate hither and thither between the two opposite poles of mood, sometimes ‘rejoicing to the skies’ sometimes ‘sad as death.’ To-day lively, sparkling, beaming, full of the joy of life, the pleasure of enterprise, and pressure of activity, after some time they meet us depressed, enervated, ill-humoured, in need of rest, and again a few months later they display the old freshness and elasticity. (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 83)  Consequently, the alternating mood states, sometimes lasting for months at a time, are “continuous in some individuals but subside, leaving periods of normality in others,” (Slater and Roth 206-7). It is important to note that the cyclothymic temperament can be “manifested in several ways – as predominantly depressive, manic, hypomanic, irritable, or cyclothymic” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 14), and while the “melancholic side of an imaginative individual may be more striking, the subtler manic states are often also there in a fluctuating pattern” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 17). In effect, the depressive state is generally more observable and therefore documented more often than the manic state: “The essential feature of cyclothymic disorder is […] numerous periods of depressive symptoms” (Goodwin and Ghaemi 687). Fincham was familiar with Jamison’s work on manic-depression and undertook his study of Thomas Hardy with her research in mind: Kay Jamison, Professor of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins, observed that ‘the fiery aspects of thought and feeling that initially compel the artistic voyage’ were commonly accompanied by ‘the capacity for vastly darker moods, grimmer energies’ and occasionally ‘bouts of madness […] Jamison utilised historical, biographical, literary and psychiatric evidence to confirm this suspected connection. (Fincham 209). Fincham noted states of mania and depression in a small selection of personal letters written both by and about Thomas Hardy, and in 2008 offered a diagnosis of cyclothymia in explanation of these seemingly cyclical mood swings – “Without doubt, Hardy was suffering from the mood disorder which would today be classified as cyclothymia”  	
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    (Fincham 217-8). He credits Felix Post’s article, “Creativity and Psychopathology: A Study of 291 World-Famous Men,”1 as the catalyst for his diagnosis of Hardy as cyclothymic. In 1994, Post conducted an analysis of 291 so-called ‘creative’ men, one of which was Thomas Hardy, and concluded that Hardy suffered from “marked psychopathology” (Post 25). This study contains several different flaws, namely restrictions and exclusions owing to Post’s use of categories and sub-categories, the basis of his entire study being founded upon biographies rather than personal writings, collected letters, or recorded first-hand accounts, and an apparent absence of female subjects. Perhaps the most significant drawback of this study is the fact that the professional group into which Hardy falls, ‘Writers,’ includes only novelists and playwrights – poets are entirely excluded. Hardy, while both a novelist and poet “cared about [his poetry] far more than he cared about his prose: he autographed his poems for me one day, saying: ‘They are all that will live – all I want to live!’” (Gibson 195); his 	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
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  Post’s 291 ‘creative’ men are separated into six different professional categories, thus being ‘scientists,’ ‘composers,’ ‘politicians,’ ‘artists,’ ‘thinkers,’ and ‘writers.’ This method of categorisation is evidently flawed in that several of the studied professionals could arguably fall within more than one of these categories. Post’s study, however, requires the restriction of each professional to a singular category, and so Hardy is included in the category that belonged to ‘writers.’ Post then divides each of his professional categories into four sub-categories that classify his interpretation of the severity of the individual’s experienced psychopathology as either ‘none,’ ‘mild,’ ‘marked,’ or ‘severe.’ Again, the limitation of a singular category is enforced, confining the individual to a singular classification of behaviour, when in fact behaviours demonstrated by an individual can fluctuate between ‘none,’ ‘mild,’ ‘marked,’ and ‘severe,’ depending on external factors and circumstances. Post bases his study entirely on “biographies […] which had been published some time after the subject’s death” (Post 23), which again has obvious shortcomings in itself as biographies arguably can embody biases of the biographer him/herself, primarily through the inclusion of the author’s own commentary as well as the process by which they select what material to include and what to exclude. Furthermore, the biographies used in this study were written retrospectively, allowing for an increased possibility of the inclusion of personal bias. 	
   	
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    interests were “wholly in poetry […] and he looked on his novels almost as belonging to another existence” (Gibson 91-7). The fact remains, then, that Post’s study groups Hardy with men unlike himself. Despite these drawbacks, the medical and literary communities value Post’s study, and hence his categorisation of Hardy as one who suffered from “marked psychopathology” is generally accepted. In his exploration of Hardy through a medico-literary lens, Fincham focuses on the “complex cross-fertilisation between Hardy’s own experiences of illness and that of his fictional characters” (Fincham 2). He argues cyclothymia to be responsible for Hardy’s obvious bouts of depression and more understated instances of mania. Fincham then takes this analysis further, claiming that the characters found in Hardy’s novels embody Hardy’s own cyclothymic mood swings. He begins his research with an in-depth study of The Return of The Native, focusing largely on Clym, “the character most closely identified with Hardy” (Fincham 229). Fincham then applies this embodiment of Hardy’s cyclothymia to additional characters: […] both Eustacia and Thomasin display aspects of Hardy’s personality – and the final member of this sextet, Mrs. Yeobright is a thinly disguised psychological portrait of Jemima [Hardy’s mother] – or more accurately, a portrait of the psychological effect this powerful woman had upon her son. (Fincham 229) Fincham makes clear that at “different stages in the text, each of these six main characters resembles their creator, in displaying significant depressive symptomatology” (Fincham 229) – these six main characters being Diggory Venn, Damon Wildeve, Clym Yeobright, Eustacia Vye, Mrs. Yeobright and Thomasin Yeobright. Before applying this diagnosis of cyclothymia to Thomas Hardy and his novels’ characters, Fincham consults Florence Hardy’s The Early Life and The Later Years, as well as Michael Millgate’s The Collected Letters and the variously authored Thomas Hardy Year-Book in an effort to locate  	
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    recorded instances of depression. Fincham locates a total of forty incidents in which Hardy is described as suffering from depression, these episodes spanning sixty years of Hardy’s mature adult life. These examples break down as follows: “ten in The Early Life, five in The Later Years, nineteen in the Collected Letters as published by Millgate and Purdy, and six from other first-hand sources – mainly Florence’s correspondence” (Fincham 213). Conversely, in an effort to locate instances of mania, Fincham collects two examples from Millgate’s Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, two examples from his 1982 Thomas Hardy: A Biography, and one example from James Gibson’s Interviews & Recollections. He then bridges these findings with the moods embodied by these six characters in The Return of The Native: Altogether there are 15 separate textual references to Clym suffering from depression – scattered throughout The Return of The Native in a similar fashion to the scattering of references to Hardy’s depression in The Early Life and The Later Years. Clym in Paris found it ‘very depressing’ ‘trying to be like people who had very little in common with myself’ (RN 172) but this echoes Hardy – and there is no evidence that he was failing to function on a day-to-day basis in Paris any more than Hardy failed to cope in London. (Fincham 234) Fincham conducts case studies on each of his previously mentioned six main characters, and this is just one example used in his study of Clym. In his conclusion of this section, Fincham argues that “The Return of The Native can therefore be read as a detailed treatise on depressive illness” (Fincham 239), a treatise that facilitates the embodiment of Hardy’s own depression through the portrayal of six of his main characters. Fincham then directs his attention toward The Mayor of Casterbridge and the character of Michael Henchard: Michael Henchard is another man who has much of his creator in his make-up. He is a man subject to ‘gloomy fits,’ ‘moody depressions’ (MC 128, 264), violent mood swings and strong emotions. These rapid emotional fluctuations, which  	
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   strongly suggest a cyclothymic disposition, make it difficult for him to form any stable relationship. (Fincham 242)  This sparks an analysis of all of Hardy’s characters, from a variety of different novels, who fail in their attempts at suicide, accumulating to ten different examples. Fincham argues that the reason so many of Hardy’s characters’ suicide attempts are thwarted is because “despite his cyclothymia, Hardy was well enough mentally balanced that any suicidal tendencies could be dissipated through his literary creations rather than his own body” (Fincham 245). Again, Fincham is arguing that Hardy’s own illness manifests itself in the portrayal of his fictive characters. This is interesting as Hardy himself claims that “a poem expresses a mood that sometimes ends with the very writing of it, & not a scientific conviction” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 5, 66); the practice of writing both novels and poetry seems to be functioning therapeutically for Hardy. Fincham then concludes his study by stating that he, […] examined the way in which Thomas Hardy’s creative impulses were inextricably linked with his depressive tendency, arguing that he suffered from a cyclothymic tendency, which he repeatedly recreated in his protagonists, as illustrated by Tess and Henchard – but demonstrated in greatest detail in The Return of The Native. (Fincham 248) This study is useful as it provides me with an example of a mode of research that can be carried out on Thomas Hardy through the comparison of biographical information found in letters and accounts of Hardy’s life with his literary production, however, having only consulted six sources, Fincham’s study is most definitely not a thorough analysis of the severity and depth of Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies: “but this is of course not a comprehensive study” (Fincham 213). As noted previously, Fincham takes a number of his examples of Hardy’s apparent mood swings from Florence Hardy’s The Early Life of Thomas Hardy and The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, which are both compilations of  	
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    some of the notes Hardy wrote in his personal notebooks. This is another drawback to Fincham’s analysis because while the material found in these notebooks belongs to Thomas Hardy himself, Florence Hardy is the one who chose which entries to include and which to leave out. This is perhaps best exemplified by an incident remembered and recorded by Thomas Hardy’s gardener, Bertie Stephens: Within a week or so of Hardy’s death there was a grand clearance of his clothes, and masses of letters and other papers from his study […] Mrs. Hardy herself burnt, on another bonfire, baskets full of the letters and private papers that I had carried down from the study to the garden under her supervision and watchful eye. She would not let me burn these, but insisted upon doing it herself, and after all the papers had been destroyed, she raked the ashes to be sure that not a single scrap or word remained […] My impression was she did not want any of the letters or papers to be seen by anyone and she was very careful to destroy every trace of them. I had wondered when she was burning them what had been among the paper. Had they not been private I should have had them with the clothes and newspapers on my bonfire. Whether she was destroying them on her own initiative or carrying out the wishes of her late husband I never knew, and the world will never learn what went up in flames on that ‘bonfire day.’ (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 1, 15-6) Evidently, the possibility remains that some of the material that Fincham based a significant portion of his research on may be considered ‘tainted,’ or ‘incomplete.’ While Fincham makes clear that his is not a comprehensive study of Thomas Hardy’s affective well-being – “No one has set out to prospectively document his illness” (Fincham 213) – my ambition is to fill this gap and provide an extensive and exhaustive account of Hardy’s temperament. While Fincham argues that Hardy experienced natural, recurring cycles of opposing moods – “his episodes of deep depression were often interspersed at short intervals with joyful light-hearted and energetic moods” (Fincham 217) – he takes this analysis further by explicitly stating that it is precisely these opposing moods that “generate the force which drives the creative tension in cyclothymic individuals”  	
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    (Fincham 218). Fincham, however, is not the first literary scholar to relate Hardy’s cyclical mood swings to his creative capability – Michael Millgate, as previously noted, remarked on this temperament earlier in his 1982 biography of Thomas Hardy: Though extraordinarily consistent and persistent at the deepest levels of personality and purpose, at more superficial levels Hardy was capable of rapid changes of mood. His frequent acknowledgement of the inconsistencies in the views expressed in his work was a direct result of his personal shifts in feeling and outlook. (Millgate Thomas Hardy: A Biography 1982, 381) Millgate then begins to link Hardy’s mood swings to his creative capability, something which Fincham notices in his own analysis of Millgate: “Millgate, recognizing that Hardy’s darker moods ‘were conducive to creative activity’ thought Hardy capable ‘if not of deliberately generating depression,’ at least of ‘surrendering to it willingly and without resistance’ (Fincham 218). In producing his diagnosis of cyclothymia, Fincham evidently consults Millgate’s biography, and consequently, Fincham’s diagnosis is partially attributable to Millgate’s comments on Hardy’s mood changes as being conducive to creative activity. This, then, brings me to Jamison’s ideas on artistic creativity and mental illness, a topic that Fincham has investigated via key characters in Hardy’s novels, but one that I will explore through Hardy’s poetry. I am particularly influenced by Kay Redfield Jamison’s contribution to this discussion, one that argues for a link whereby, […] the cognitive styles, temperaments, and intense, cyclic moods associated with bipolar spectrum disorders cause some who are already creative and productive to be even more so […] The argument is, rather, that a disproportionate number of eminent writers and artists have suffered from bipolar spectrum disorders and that, under some circumstances, creativity can be facilitated by such disorders. (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 381) 2 	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
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  Let it be noted that Hardy does not appear in Jamison’s appendix of artists who arguably have suffered from a form of manic-depression.	
   	
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    Jamison makes very clear that the relationship between manic-depression and artistic creativity is not necessarily a given, assured relationship, rather, it is one of association: “The main purpose of this book is to make a literary, biographical, and scientific argument for a compelling association, not to say actual overlap, between two temperaments – the artistic and the manic-depressive” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 5). Jamison’s research in this area is extensive, completing studies of her own as well as conducting extensive research on studies completed by other scholars, and it is only through careful consideration of research by both herself and her colleagues that she makes the claim that a link between mental illness and artistic creativity may in fact exist. Worthy of consideration is the fact that Jamison is presuming that artistic creativity is a stable quality that belongs to a particular group of artists and their works; conversely, research that both supports and questions this association is consistently being conducted. For example, Simon Kyaga et al. published a study in November 2011 in the British Journal of Psychiatry titled “Creativity and mental disorder: family study of 300 000 people with severe mental disorder” which both supports and interrogates this associative relationship: The general use of artistic […] occupations as a proxy for creativity is a limitation, considering the many different ways to measure creativity […] Future studies are needed to elucidate if creativity is distinct from other human traits, such as intelligence or language, that might confer increased risk for psychosis. (Kyaga et al. 378) The fact that creativity is subjective in nature is precisely why I have conducted my research through the lens of Jamison’s and Fincham’s propositions – accounting for both the drawbacks and advantages of such a study – rather than stating a claim of a direct causal relationship between artistic creativity and mental illness. What I define as artistic,  	
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    genius, imaginative, etc., may and will differ greatly from the definitions of others, and so we, as literary scholars, must take caution not to base our conceptions of creativity on undefined assumptions. This sentiment is reiterated by Hardy himself when, in July of 1897, he states that the “‘best’ of things […] cannot be deduced to a common denominator. At any given moment we like best what meets the mood of that moment” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 71). Kyaga et al. account for this challenge in their study when they argue that their findings are not fully reliable as there are “many different ways to measure creativity” (Kyaga et al. 378). More so, ‘measuring’ creativity arguably reduces artistic ability to a distinct and bounded psychic function. Such an effort may be fundamentally flawed, perhaps as futile as trying to define what does and does not constitute ‘art.’ Furthermore, while many lines of evidence point to a strong relationship between mood disorders and artistic achievement, the fact remains that mood swings are essentially normal, and therefore diagnosing one who exhibits mood swings as someone who suffers from a mood disorder, or a temperament, becomes relatively complex. Jamison is aware of this notion and argues, “the fact that there is only a partial correlation [between mental illness and artistic creativity] does not mean that there is no correlation at all” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 90). Clearly, there are many artists, writers, and composers who do not suffer from mental illness, and so the argument here “is not that such people do not exist, for they obviously do. Rather, the argument is that a much higher than expected rate of manic-depressive illness, depression, and suicide exists in exceptionally creative writers and artists” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 90). Like Millgate, Jamison claims that it is precisely the contrasting natures of the elated and the depressive states that provide, for those with artistic or literary ability, “a rich variety of  	
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    experiences and sensations from which to create” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 128). This idea is similarly reiterated when she states, It is the interaction, tension, and transition between changing mood states, as well as the sustenance and discipline drawn from periods of health, that is critically important; and it is these same tensions and transitions that ultimately give such power to the art that is born in this way. (Jamison Touched with Fire, 6) Jamison focuses her analysis largely on Lord Byron, and her findings are based on a combination of both scientific knowledge and primary material – the same kinds of primary material I have consulted in my research on Hardy. Therefore, I have adopted her analytical methodologies and applied them to my findings in the archival research I have completed on Thomas Hardy in order to do precisely what Fincham argues has never been done - “No one set out to prospectively document his illness” (Fincham 213). My hope is that the comprehensive and exhaustive bibliographic survey I have created may allow for the future study of the ways in which Hardy’s alleged cyclothymia can be said to contribute to our understanding of what Hardy’s works mean. Ultimately, I am questioning whether or not it is possible to draw conclusions about a relationship between Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies and the modes of expression, themes, and overall meanings of his poetry at a particular moment. I am neither confirming nor contesting the diagnosis of Hardy as being one who suffers from cyclothymia, I am instead asking how this diagnosis affects our understanding of the meanings of Hardy’s poetical works. In an attempt to provide both a reliable and responsible documentation of Hardy’s seemingly cyclical bouts of mania and depression, I have adopted the research methods utilized by both Jamison and Fincham, chiefly the careful examination of personal and primary material, including but not limited to letters to, from, and about Hardy, Hardy’s personal notebooks, accounts of Hardy’s daily routine provided by his gardeners, maids,  	
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    cooks and other household staff, documentation of Hardy’s personality composed by both Emma and Florence Hardy, as well as several additional first-hand accounts of Hardy’s behaviour from friends and acquaintances. Jamison argues that any discussion of temperament and art is “best served by examining one’s life in some depth” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 6), hence my decision to consult a rather substantial array of personal writings and anecdotes in this study. This thesis, however, inevitably involves retrospective diagnosis and does fall within the realm of biographical studies, such studies being utterly “fraught with difficulties” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 381). According to Jamison, […] the idea of using formal psychiatric diagnostic criteria in the arts has been anathema, and, in any event, biological psychiatrists have displayed relatively little interest in studying mood disorders in artists, writers, or musicians. Certainly those in the arts have been less than enthusiastic about being seen through a biological or diagnostic grid. Those in the best position to link the two worlds – scholars of creativity – only recently have begun to address the problem. (Jamison Touched with Fire, 3) The nature of the primary material I am using to locate evidence of cyclothymic tendencies is inherently problematic as it is undoubtedly written with a sense of personal bias, as arguably all personal writings are written with a sense of opinion. According to Daylian M. Cain and Allan S. Detsky’s 2008 article, “Everyone’s a Little Bit Biased (Even Physicians),” bias is “not necessarily intentional, and is not a sign of a lack of integrity; rather, it is a natural human phenomenon” (Cain and Detsky 2895). Jamison, too, makes this observation when she states, “the reliability of letters, journals, and memoirs can be limited because they are written from a single perspective” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 381). Furthermore, the historical context and the existing social norms and customs can also determine which behaviours are emphasized and  	
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    which are left out. Complicating matters more so, being regarded as artistic or creative, for example, can “provide cover for deviant and bizarre behaviour” (Jamison ManicDepressive Illness, 381). Such can be seen in the assumption that “madness, melancholy, and suicide are somehow normal [within artistic circles], making it difficult at times to ferret out truth from expectation” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 57). Another drawback to biographical studies is the plain fact that more detailed information exists for some individuals than for others, perhaps put best by Anthony Storr: The more we know about anyone, the easier it becomes to discern neurotic traits, mood disorders and other aspects of character which, when emphatically present, we call neurotic. The famous and successful are usually less able to conceal whatever vagaries of character they may possess because biographers or Ph. D. students will not let them rest in peace. (Storr 7) The other side of this argument is the fact that highly accomplished individuals can be viewed as people who are simply excessively productive. Consequently, this results in the under-diagnosis of the manic side of manic-depression. This idea is reiterated when Jamison states, Biographical studies indicate that writers, artists, and composers often describe their periods of melancholy or depression in great detail, but that other aspects of mood swings, such as hypomania and even at times overt psychosis, are subsumed under ‘eccentricity,’ ‘creative inspiration,’ or ‘artistic temperament.’ Thus many individuals with clear histories of profound or debilitating depressions are labelled ‘melancholic’ rather than manic-depressive, despite their episodic (and often seasonal) histories of extremely high energy, irritability, enthusiasm, and increased productivity. (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 383) Such are the disadvantages of retrospective diagnosis when accomplished through biographical studies; however, reliable and useful research on manic-depression can still be performed on biographical material through Jamison’s suggested analytical approach. This approach requires an examination of manic-depression’s symptomatic presentation, its associated behaviour patterns and its natural course. Conversely, psychiatric and  	
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    medical conditions that can have similar symptoms must also be both considered and ruled out. In effect, making a “retrospective diagnosis is, in many ways, like putting together the pieces of a three-dimensional puzzle or solving a mystery by a complicated, but careful marshalling of evidence” (Jamison Manic Depressive Illness, 383). Because of the hypothetical nature of retrospective diagnosis, these diagnoses must be more tentative than diagnoses made on living individuals. This thesis is potentially controversial as some may view it as an attempt to reduce what is artistically meaningful to “a clinical syndrome, genetic flaw, or predictable temperament” (Jamison Manic Depressive Illness, 258) – essentially, a byproduct of an imperfect, illogical human being. Associating artistic creativity with mental illness has a profound effect on our interpretation of the literary or artistic works created: rather than provoking a natural aesthetic response to the piece of art, the reader/viewer is exposed to the possibility of treating the meaning of a particular work of art as a symptom of illness. Jamison acknowledges this dilemma arguing that, “Labelling as manic-depressive anyone who is unusually creative, accomplished, energetic, intense, moody, or eccentric both diminishes the notion of individuality within the arts and trivializes a very serious, often lethal illness” (Jamison Manic Depressive Illness, 406). Fincham approaches this challenge from a different perspective, claiming that those who oppose retrospective diagnoses involving mental illness – those who “see mental illness as a dirty word” (Fincham 222) – fail to acknowledge “the positive benefits of cyclothymia” (Fincham 222). Such people, according to Fincham, […] do not appreciate that locking yourself away in your room, refusing to see visitors and refusing to answer letters may all be essential elements of the creative personality. They do not appreciate that Hardy’s misery and reclusiveness were  	
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   part of a psychological make-up which gave him his creative genius.” (Fincham 222)  Fincham’s approach to the relationship between manic-depression and artistic creativity is evidently causal rather than associative, seemingly lacking in a degree of caution. Like Fincham, Jamison argues, “Perhaps some suffering must always accompany great artistic achievement” (Jamison Manic Depressive Illness, 406). These attitudes are precisely what I am arguing against, as “creative genius” (Fincham 222) is inherently subjective in nature and therefore immeasurable – “Primarily poetry is a purely subjective thing” (Bjork The Literary Notebooks vol. 2, 124) – Fincham seems to be making a claim of actual existence based on terms that are arguably undefinable. Furthermore, both scholars are making a claim of causation, despite Jamison’s previous pronouncement of arguing for an associative relationship. Consequently, the literature surrounding a link between manic-depression and artistic creativity can be, at times, unreliable, only emphasizing the challenges of the ethical and social implications associated with this relationship. I have attempted, to the best of my ability, to avoid such controversy by stating that I am conducting my research through the lens of Fincham’s and Jamison’s propositions rather than stating a claim of causality between mental-illness and artistic creativity. The bibliographic survey I have created provides supplementation for both Fincham’s and Jamison’s studies, which may help redress their lack of comprehensiveness, a major drawback of their research. My research has required the consultation of every piece of literature at my disposal that qualifies as an example of a first-hand account written either by Hardy himself or by someone who knew him, the latter examples always with a focus on Hardy. I have titled my study “A Bibliographic Survey of Instances of Mania, Depression,  	
    18  	
    	
    Morbidity, and Affective Aesthetic Expression in the Personal Writings To, From, and About Thomas Hardy” and have assigned a label, such as ‘Mania,’ for example, to each of my entries with several of these entries falling into two or more categories. I have employed the use of keywords supplied by Jamison’s research in order to distinguish which entries constitute the categorisation of ‘Mania’ or ‘Depression.’ When identifying manic examples, I have looked for words such as “obsession,” “fascination,” “cheerful,” “frenzied,” “extreme shyness,” for example. In categorizing instances of depression, terms such as “gloom,” “despondency,” “melancholia,” “depressed,” “loneliness,” “monotony,” “saddest,” etc. These are terms that Jamison uses in her identification of manic and depressive symptomatology, and so I have utilised them in my own analysis as well. I have numbered my findings from #1-852 in order to allow for an Index at the end of my bibliographic survey. This index lists the entry numbers that correspond with each category so as to allow for both a quick reference guide for my reader as well as to facilitate future research that may be carried out through the use of this document. I have included ‘Morbidity’ and ‘Affective Aesthetic Expression’ as categories because morbidity, according to Jamison, is often associated with both the manic and depressive states, while affective aesthetic expression lies at the centre of the conversation surrounding mental illness and heightened artistic creativity. I have endeavoured to provide a comprehensive and exhaustive list of every instance in which Thomas Hardy is exhibiting traits associated with cyclothymia. It is my hope that this document will act as a database from which myself and other scholars may draw when conducting future research on the potential links between creativity and mental illness, particularly those that pertain to Thomas Hardy.  	
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   While Fincham argues that Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies are embodied by the  characters in his novels, I have instead turned my attention toward Hardy’s poems and the ways in which they may be expressing affect. The main reason for this shift is because Hardy himself often asserts that poetry bears traces of personal, experienced emotion, for example, “I have, however, of late years, lapsed so deeply into my early weakness for verse, & have found the condensed expression that it affords so much more consonant to my natural way of thinking & feeling that I have almost forgotten the prose effusions for the time” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 3, 133) as well as “Perhaps I can express more fully in verse ideas and emotions” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 57-8). Evidently, “Poetry is emotion put into measure. The emotion must come by nature, but the measure can be acquired by art” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 78) and, perhaps most tellingly, “All my things of late have been ‘brevities’ (as the Americans say) in verse […] because that form of expression seems to fit my thoughts better” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 4, 43). Hardy’s second wife, Florence, recognizes the biographical value of Hardy’s poetry when in a reply to a critic’s request for personal information about Hardy on October 30th, 1919, she states, “In reply to your letter I write for Mr. Hardy, who is in bed with a cold […] Speaking generally, there is more autobiography in a hundred lines of Mr. Hardy’s poetry than in all the novels” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 196). It is precisely because of these declarations that I argue a more reliable manifestation of Hardy’s supposed cyclothymia can be found in his poetry rather than in the characters of his novels. Because so many of the examples I provide in my bibliographic survey offer the exact date of the entry itself, I am able to cross reference the recorded date with the poem  	
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    Hardy wrote, if one was written at all, either on or close to that very day. The goal, here, is to observe whether or not any of the supposed episodes of mania, depression, morbidity and affective poetic expression that I have identified in the entry appear in the poetry written on that same date. In effect, I am exposing the ways in which Hardy’s cyclothymic tendencies might arguably influence his poetical works. For example, in a letter to Rebekah Owen on September 5th, 1914, Florence Hardy writes, My husband was called hurriedly to Town on Wednesday – on war business. But he, dear heart, is not able to do much. The horror of this is making a great change in him – I can see. To me he seems ten years older. The thought of it all obsessed him. That is why, I think, he writes no poem about it. He cannot write about the things he feels most deeply. (Millgate Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 100) This entry is interesting because on September 5th, 1914, Thomas Hardy did the one thing Florence said he wouldn’t do – he wrote a poem. This poem is titled “Men Who March Away” and reads as follows: What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away? Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye? Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see – Dalliers as they be – England’s need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing,  	
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   Though some may not see! In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just. Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away? (T. Hardy The Complete Poems, 346).  The subject matter of this poem reflects Thomas Hardy’s ‘obsession,’ as stated by Florence, consequently exposing the fact that Hardy can indeed “write about the things he feels most deeply.” I argue that this is an instance of affective aesthetic expression – Hardy’s verse seems to bear traces of the emotional state that the collected biographical evidence indicates predominated at the time he wrote this poem. Whether this obsession is attributable to either a manic or a depressive state is something that I will never truly know, an obvious drawback of retrospective diagnosis, but it is clear that Hardy’s obsessive behaviour is a factor in the formation of this poem; the poem is functioning as an expression of emotion, as Hardy himself insists. The death of Emma Lavinia Hardy, Thomas Hardy’s first wife, had a profound effect on Hardy, and his Poems 1912-13 reflect largely upon her passing. In a letter to Edward Clodd on December 13th, 1912, Hardy states, I would have written sooner to acknowledge your prompt letter of sympathy with me in my loss, but I could not. I feel the greatest difficulty in writing or doing anything. Yes: what you say is true. One forgets all the recent years & differences, & the mind goes back to the early times when each was much to the  	
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   other – in her case & mine intensely much. (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 4, 239)  This entry is interesting as Hardy acknowledges his state of mind, one in which he seems to be dwelling on the past, reflecting a sense of nostalgia. This sense of longing is similarly reiterated in a letter to Florence Henniker on December 17th, 1912: I have reproached myself for not having guessed there might be some internal mischief at work, instead of blindly supposing her robust & sound & likely to live to quite old age. In spite of the differences between us, which it would be affectation to deny, & certain painful delusions she suffered from at times, my life is intensely sad to me now without her. The saddest moments of all are when I go into the garden & to that long straight walk at the top that you know, where she used to walk every evening just before dusk, the cat trotting faithfully behind her; & at times when I almost expect to see her as usual coming in from the flowerbeds with a little trowel in her hand. (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 4, 243) The melancholy and remembrance that appears in these two letters seems to reflect a state of depression, and it is precisely this nostalgia and despondency that materializes in the poems written by Hardy during December of 1912. For example, “Your Last Drive” reads as follows: Here by the moorway you returned, And saw the borough lights ahead That lit your face—all undiscerned To be in a week the face of the dead, And you told of the charm of that haloed view That never again would beam on you. And on your left you passed the spot Where eight days later you were to lie, And be spoken of as one who was not; Beholding it with a heedless eye As alien from you, though under its tree You soon would halt everlastingly. I drove not with you. . . . Yet had I sat At your side that eve I should not have seen That the countenance I was glancing at Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen, Nor have read the writing upon your face,  	
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   "I go hence soon to my resting-place; "You may miss me then. But I shall not know How many times you visit me there, Or what your thoughts are, or if you go There never at all. And I shall not care. Should you censure me I shall take no heed And even your praises no more shall need." True: never you'll know. And you will not mind. But shall I then slight you because of such? Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find The thought "What profit", move me much? Yet abides the fact, indeed, the same,— You are past love, praise, indifference, blame. (T. Hardy The Complete Poems,  346). Evidently, Hardy’s musings about Emma are manifested in his poetry, and once again his poetry is indicative of emotion, quite obviously depression in this instance. In another poem, “The Voice,” also written in December of 1912, this sense of melancholia and nostalgia surfaces again: Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me, Saying that now you are not as you were When you had changed from the one who was all to me, But as at first, when our day was fair. Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Standing as when I drew near to the town Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then, Even to the original air-blue gown! Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness Travelling across the wet mead to me here, You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness, Heard no more again far or near? Thus I; faltering forward, Leaves around me falling, Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward, And the woman calling. (T. Hardy The Complete Poems, 346).  	
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    Whether or not this sense of gloom and longing is an example of depression or simply a brief instance of sadness is something we may never know, however, a connection can evidently be made between the resonances of misery in the letters Hardy wrote and the poetry he produced at this particular moment in time. This kind of comparative analysis is not proving that depression causes affective aesthetic expression, it is instead calling attention to an instance in which Hardy’s literary production bears traces of the apparent mood he experienced, ascertained through biographical research. This is one way in which this bibliographic survey may be used to carry out further research in the study of mental illness and artistic creativity. While Hardy’s poetry is arguably rather indicative of his emotional temperament, Hardy was extremely conscious of the fact that his poems exposed his emotions to the public and often expressed a sense of regret in publishing such personal literature. For example, in a letter to Richard Garnett on September 8th, 1901, Hardy states, “I sometimes wish I had not decided to publish the poems – one exposes one’s self to all sorts of arrows by printing anything written in hours of impulse” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 2, 298). He also, quite eerily, predicts the fact that people may one day strive to prove that his poetry can be reduced to something scientific. For example, in a letter to Edmund Gosse on December 1st, 1914, Hardy writes, “And so few of the critical trade recognize what you know well – a poem expresses a mood that sometimes ends with the very writing of it, & not a scientific conviction” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 5, 66). Similarly, on December 23rd, 1920, Hardy states, “It is my misfortune that people will treat all my mood-dictated writing as a single scientific theory” (T. Hardy The Later Years, 219). Again, I am not attempting to prove that Hardy’s supposed cyclothymia  	
    25  	
    	
    caused him to be literarily gifted; rather, I am exposing a moment in which his artistic creativity is arguably “mood-dictated” (T. Hardy The Later Years, 219). The composition of these mood-dictated writings is perhaps best captured when, in a letter to Edmund Gosse on December 12th, 1909, Hardy himself claims, “Some writers of verse are instinctively vocal in sadness & silent in joy, just as others are vocal in joy & silent in sadness. Hence what they produce gives only a half-picture of their minds” (Millgate The Collected Letters vol. 4, 65). It is important for scholars working in the field of biographical studies and retrospective diagnosis to conduct their research with caution as the work we produce is strictly hypothetical. As Hardy states, poetry “gives only a half-picture of [poets’] minds”; the emotion that isn’t present in a poem is just as important as the emotion that is. Such is the reason I have attempted to conduct this study through Jamison’s lens of association rather than with a declaration of a bounded, directly causal relationship between mental-illness and artistic creativity. Because retrospective diagnosis is hypothetical in nature, the examples of correlation I have provided are inherently hypothetical as well. Nonetheless, “valid and useful research can be carried out” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 383) in the field of biography studies, and it is my hope that this bibliographic survey will foster such kinds of further research on Thomas Hardy. Ultimately, scholars in the field of biographical studies will never be able to determine the definite meanings of Hardy’s poetry and their relationship to possible determining factors, such as cyclothymia, however, the careful scholar can, with an attention to detail, provide insight into the ways in which this binary relationship holds potential for meaning. The bibliographic survey I have created attempts to fill some of the gaps in both Fincham’s and Jamison’s studies and may allow for the future study of  	
    26  	
    	
    the ways in which Hardy’s alleged cyclothymia can be said to contribute to our understanding of what Hardy’s works mean. A definitive diagnosis of cyclothymia in explanation of Hardy’s emotional temperament is controversial in the sense that it can arguably be received in either a positive or negative light. Some scholars might agree that by identifying someone as artistically accomplished as Thomas Hardy as someone who suffers from a mild form of manic-depression begins to remove the social stigma attached to mental illness through its exposition of potential for genius. Conversely, others may view such a diagnosis as an attack on Hardy’s artistic achievement. This is by no means an attempt to reduce what is artistically beautiful into a product of mental illness; rather, I have endeavoured to illustrate an instance in which a particular determining factor, cyclothymia, might have been the catalyst that awoke Hardy’s passion for poetry: “A sense of the truth of poetry, of its supreme place in literature, had awakened itself in me” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 185). 	
    	
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    Bibliography A Bibliographic Survey of Instances of Mania, Depression, Morbidity, and Affective Aesthetic Expression in the Personal Writings To, From, and About Thomas Hardy. Purpose: The purpose of this study is to provide a survey of passages from Thomas Hardy’s letters, journal entries, and other personal writings that, in my judgement, fall into one or more of four categories that relate to both Fincham’s diagnosis of cyclothymia and Jamison’s analysis of manic-depressive creativity. The entries are numbered and organized by date from #1-852 in order to facilitate the index that follows this document. The index functions as a brief, efficient reference guide as it is organized by category and provides the entry numbers that correspond either wholly or partially to that particular category. The reasoning behind this undertaking is perhaps expressed best by George Wing, a Thomas Hardy scholar, when he states, “These attitudes and prejudices naturally make us curious to know if there was anything in Hardy’s private and personal experience which could have induced them. An examination and comparison of certain dates in his personal history and of publication of his works may be of value” – George Wing (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 522).  Cyclothymia: As previously stated, Tony Fincham offers a diagnosis of cyclothymia, a mild variant of manic-depression, in explanation of Thomas Hardy’s apparent mood swings in July of 2008. Cylothymics “constantly oscillate hither and thither between the two opposite poles of mood, sometimes ‘rejoicing to the skies,’ sometimes ‘sad as death’” (Kraepelin 132). These changes in mood can be either brief or lengthy, and are cyclical  	
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    in nature: “To-day lively, sparkling, beaming, full of the joy of life […] after some time they meet us depressed, enervated, ill-humoured, in need of rest, and again a few months later they display the old freshness and elasticity” (Kraepelin 132). Eliot Felkin, who on August 13th, 1919, met Hardy for tea, perhaps best captures Hardy’s supposed cyclothymia when he remarks, “One of the extraordinary things about him is the rapidity of his change of moods. He seemed quite broken up around the graves, then on the way home physically tired but mentally alert, then at the garden gate he hopped on to the bank like a young man, to put his hand over the wall and found the key” (Gibson 118). Other instances in which Hardy’s mood seems to fluctuate between mania and depression can be accounted for when Hardy himself, in a letter to Clement Shorter in December of 1910, writes, “I felt quite incompetent for the job; & up to now I feel just the same. Of course I don’t know what may come into my head between now & then,” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 4, 134). Several of Hardy’s family members and friends similarly comment upon his changes in mood, such as Florence, Hardy’s second wife, for example. In a letter to Sydney Cockerell, she writes, Perhaps he will feel better tomorrow […] However it is possible that T. H. may change his mind. People little know when they see how bright and vigorous he is to outsiders, what a state of frenzy he works himself into when alone here with me. The only remedy is to remain quiet and say nothing, and he calms down after a time. (Milligate Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 209-10) Similarly, R. E. Zachrisson remembers, “His conversation was easy and natural, passing from grave to gay subjects” (Gibson 133). These are just a few of an extensive array of entries that account for Hardy’s cyclical mood swings, potentially offering substantiation for and credibility to Fincham’s diagnosis of cyclothymia.  	
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    Survey Categories 1. Mania:3 Leading scholar in the areas of mental-illness and artistic creativity, Kay Redfield Jamison, claims that “Manic states are typically characterized by heightened mood, more and faster speech, quicker thought, brisker physical and mental activity levels […] irritability, perceptual acuity, paranoia, […] and impulsivity” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 32). This notion of impulsivity is reiterated in a letter from Thomas Hardy to Richard Garnett on September 8th, 1901, an instance that I argue is retrospectively reflecting upon an experienced moment of mania: “I sometimes wish I had not decided to publish the poems – one exposes one’s self to all sorts of arrows by printing anything written in hours of impulse” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 2, 298). Eugen Bleuler, a Swiss Psychiatrist most notable for inventing the term ‘schizophrenia,’ reiterates Jamison’s claim of “quicker thought” when he states, “The thinking of the manic is flighty. He jumps by by-paths from one subject to another, and cannot adhere to anything. With this the ideas run along very easily and involuntarily, even so freely that it may be felt as unpleasant by the patient” (Bleuler 466). This sense of “flighty” thought that “jumps” and cannot “adhere to anything” is observable in a letter from Thomas Hardy to his first wife, Emma, on October 9th, 1908: It is very dismal here, & if you come back I do not think you will stay long. However, it will be a great relief to get these jobs done, as they have been upon my mind so long. The servants are very quiet, & attentive about the cats. A woman in Dorchester has murdered her baby. (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 3, 344) 	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
  	
   3 Let it be noted that the number placed next to each of the four categories in this explanatory key do not have any relationship to the numbers found next to the entries in the survey itself. 	
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    Hardy’s thought process leaps from his gloomy state of mind, to the jobs he needs to complete, to his servants, to his cats and finally to a morbid piece of news in only four short sentences, with no obvious connection between each sentence. In my analysis, this entry reflects the ideas pertinent to Bleuler’s claim of mania. Emil Kraepelin, instead, touches upon a less obvious facet of mania, namely a desire to remain silent and in solitude, and “sometimes it is quite impossible to get into communication with them; as a rule, however, they understand emphatic speech, and even give isolated suitable replies, but they are influenced by every new impression” (Kraepelin 62). This notion of shyness in speech yet attentive in listening is reflected in an entry written by W. Somerset Maugham in 1910: Many odd and disconcerting ideas must cross his mind, I thought, while he maintains the dignified exterior that his admirers demand of him […] He was amiable and mild. It struck me at the time that there was in him a curious mixture of shyness and self-assurance. (Gibson 90) This is only one of a substantial amount of entries that refer to Hardy’s shyness, and while Hardy is described as “shy,” he’s also described as “amiable and mild,” portraying him as seemingly shy yet interested, therefore reflecting Kraepelin’s model of mania. The next entry extends this description of Hardy’s shyness and illustrates it as being physically embodied: Hardy, seated comfortably in his chair, when having a conversation with me, would lower his head and gaze on the ground, with his hands resting on his lap one over the other […] Although he rarely looked at people when speaking to them, I always had the feeling, when he was speaking to me, that his eyes, although looking down at the floor, were at the same time furtively watching me from their corners. I supposed this aversion to looking at his visitor was due to his natural and extreme shyness. (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 16) While Hardy averts his eyes from his guest for the duration of the visit, the visitor nonetheless feels as if “his eyes, although looking down at the floor, were at the same  	
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    time furtively watching me from their corners,” similarly illustrating the attentive listening associated with Kraepelin’s model of mania. Another way in which Hardy’s shyness is illustrated is through the extreme measures he took to go unnoticed when in public. Such an instance is captured in a monograph written by Jessica Vera Mardon, titled, “Thomas Hardy as a Musician,” in which she recounts his attendance at a play that staged one of his novels: On the day of the performance Hardy waited until the lights were lowered and then silently entered his specially prepared closet. After the performance Hardy remained concealed in his ‘box’ until he thought all of the audience, except the Hardy Players, had left the hall. He then crept out, but to our horror we suddenly realised that the two American ladies were still present with us, and in order to keep him concealed we quickly crowded round him. Unfortunately one of the good ladies was very tall and she spotted him and enthusiastically rushed towards him, quickly followed by her friend, and thrusting out her hand said: ‘Gee! Mr. Hardy! May I have the honour of shaking you by the hand?’ […] Hardy was caught in just the situation he always dreaded. He […] quickly jerked his hand free and rapidly turned on his heels and shot out of the hall to his hired car, at what, even for him, was a remarkably fast pace. He reminded us of a frightened rabbit scurrying back to its burrow. We […] guessed the American ladies could not have heard of his extreme shyness. (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 15) This entry epitomizes Hardy’s almost obsessive aversion of publicity, and this is precisely why Hardy’s home at Max Gate was on the outskirts of Dorchester, “tucked in among tall trees completely hidden from the road” (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 231), and “far from his mental companions. There is no mental kinship here at all, & he has no visitors & goes nowhere” (Millgate Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 75-6). Evidently, Hardy’s home, lifestyle, and the way in which he conducted himself in public exemplify an extreme desire for privacy, arguably manic in nature. The final feature of mania I have documented in my research is the physical appearance of the entries in Hardy’s personal notebooks as well as the content of these  	
    32  	
    	
    examples. According to Livingstone Campbell, the manic patient’s “writing is demonstrative, flashy, rhetorical and bombastic […] Capital letters are used unnecessarily, sentences are underscored and flight of ideas and distractibility destroy the coherence of the theme” (Campbell 152). Furthermore, “the subject of the manic’s writing often pertains to the correction of wrongs, religious tangents, [and] gaining his freedom” (Campbell 152). Firstly, several entries focus on Campbell’s “correction of wrongs,” such as Hardy’s commitment to the prevention of cruelty to animals, a cause he donated a significant sum of his will to. Recalling a visit with Thomas Hardy, Siegfried Sassoon remembers, A thrush broke out into song outside, and the smile faded from Hardy’s face. ‘An hour before you came,’ he said vehemently, ‘I saw a horrible sight – a thrush in a cage. Canaries and finches are bad enough, but a thrush! How can people do it? – the cruelty of it!’ His eyes blazed with anger, and for the rest of that visit there was little else discussed except the treatment of birds and animals. (Gibson 87-8) Similarly, following Emma Hardy’s death, Hardy released a new book of poems, Satires of Circumstance, which pained Hardy’s new wife, Florence, horribly. According to Robert Gittings, “the few, gentle tributes to herself were drowned in the passionate reminiscences of his wooing of Emma, released on the flood-tide of her death and his remorseful guilt” (Gittings 79). Nothing could diminish “Hardy’s desire to write about Emma and their past together. It was as he said ‘an expiation,’ presumably for his neglect, physical and mental, as a husband” (E. L. Hardy Some Recollections, xvi). This guilt manifested itself in his poetry, eventually transforming into a fixation – “Hardy was obsessed” (Gittings 77). Hardy perhaps says it best himself when, in a 1914 letter to Florence Henniker, he writes, Some of [the poems] I rather shrink from printing – those I wrote just after Emma died, when I looked back at her as she had originally been, & when I felt  	
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   miserable lest I had not treated her considerately in her latter life. However I shall publish them as the only amends I can make, if it were so. (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 5, 37-8)  Evidently, in Hardy’s case, “the subject of [his] writing often pertains to the correction of wrongs” (Campbell 152). In response to Campbell’s claim of “religious tangents,” a large number of Hardy’s entries do in fact question the existence of ‘God,’ as exemplified by an August of 1897 journal entry of his: “August 15. It is so easy nowadays to call any force above or under the sky by the name of ‘God’ – and so pass as orthodox cheaply, and fill the pocket!” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 72). A later entry in his literary notebooks seems to exemplify three of Campbell’s requirements for an example of the manic state: “sentences [that] are underscored,” the “flight of ideas,” and subject matter pertaining to “religious tangents”: 2110. God as super-conscious. Of this unconscious clairvoyant intelligence we have come to perceive that in its infallible purposive (progressive) …activity,…it infinitely transcends the halting gait of the discursive reflection of conscious, ever limited to a single point, dependent on sense perception, memory & inspirations of the Unconsciousness. We shall…designate this intelligence, superior to all conscious, at once unconscious & super-conscious. (very obscure). (Bjork The Literary Notebooks vol. 2, 111) Finally, Hardy muses over “gaining his freedom,” another aspect of Campbell’s description of mania, most notably through his desire to die. For example, in a letter written to H. Rider Haggard on May 4th, 1891, Hardy offers his condolences in the death of the Haggard’s child: “Please give my kind regards to Mrs. Haggard, & tell her how deeply our sympathy was with you both in your bereavement. Though, to be candid, I think the death of a child is never really to be regretted when one reflects on what he has escaped” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 1, 235). This is quite obviously a rather morbid response to the death of a child and it expresses Hardy’s own desire to “escape” the  	
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    horrors of the world he finds himself living in; it is precisely in death that Hardy sees freedom. In a letter to Florence Henniker in July of 1893, Hardy similarly speaks of escape: “As to my beginning to write again Heaven only knows when I shall do it. – I feel much more inclined to fly off to foreign scenes or plunge into wild dissipation” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 2, 23). These are just two entries that exemplify Hardy’s ambition to escape this world and gain freedom, consequently again reflecting Campbell’s described characteristics of the manic state.  2. Depression: In sharp contrast to the manic state, the depressive state is “usually characterized by a slowing or decrease in almost all aspects of emotion and behaviour: rate of thoughts and speech, energy, […] and the ability to experience pleasure” (Jamison ManicDepressive Illness, 65). The depressive patient “tends to be dominated by a dull, flat, and colourless sense of experience; by despair, hopelessness, and pessimism” (Jamison Manic-Depressive Illness, 68). This inability to experience pleasure and sense of despair is reflected in a T. P. O’Connor’s recollection of a visit with Hardy: You had not spoken to him for many minutes till you discovered that unlifting melancholy which runs through all his writings, and was at the very root of his own being. The melancholy was so profound that it extended to his views of his own work […] I had spoken to him once of fits of depression through which, like most men of letters, I occasionally passed. He looked at me with some surprise; and then he said, ‘I didn’t think there was anybody in the world that could be so depressed as I can be.’ But, in spite of that, it was with a shock that I heard him say of his own works that he did not care if every book he had ever written were burned and never seen or heard of again […] I wonder if in all the records of literature there is an avowal more tragically sad? (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 236) According to Aretaeus of Cappadocia, a celebrated Greek physician, those suffering from depression are “to become base, mean-spirited […] But if the illness becomes more  	
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    urgent, hatred, avoidance of the haunts of men” (Aretaeus 299). This is significant because, as previously stated, Hardy avoided the public, shutting himself away in his study at Max Gate for days at a time. Evidently, this desire to be left in solitude belongs to both the manic and depressive states, according to my research, and consequently mania and depression are almost inseparable, or dependant on one another. This only enhances the notion of cyclicity so inherent in the study of cyclothymia. Furthermore, Hardy is often referred to as being incredibly mean towards his household staff members, neighbours, etc, therefore reflecting Aretaeus’ description of the “mean-spirited” depressive patient. For example, according to L. J. Medway, Thomas Hardy was “a most shy man, I know, and reputed to be very mean,” (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 231), and similarly, “Mother always told me the Hardy’s had the reputation of being the meanest people in the village. They never gave more than a piece of cake for favours done. I don’t like to say it, but Hardy was known locally as a mean man” (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 228). Conversely, Karl Jaspers describes the bodily experience of deep depression, claiming that the depressive patient feels “profound gloom as a sensation in the chest or body as if it could be laid hold of there. The depth of their melancholy makes them see the world as grim and grey […] The present has nothing for them and the future lies horrifyingly before them” (Jaspers 597). Both the bodily sensation of extreme depression and the despair with which the depressed patient views their present state seem to be present in a letter from Thomas Hardy to Edmund Gosse on August 30th, 1887: As to despondency, I have known the very depths of it – you would be quite shocked if I were to tell you how many weeks & months in bygone years I have gone to bed wishing never to see daylight again. This blackest state of mind was however several years ago - & seldom recurs now. One day I was saying to  	
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   myself ‘Why art thou so heavy, O my soul, & why art thou so disquieted within me?’ (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 1, 167)  The deep despondency felt by Hardy seems to have taken shape both mentally and physically, causing his soul to feel “so heavy,” similarly mirroring Jaspers’ suggestion that the depressive patient feels “profound gloom as a sensation in the chest or body as if it could be laid hold of there” (Jaspers 597). Once more, the desire to die is associated with both the manic and depressive states, again enhancing the concept of cyclicity.  3. Morbidity: The category of morbidity is interesting as it can arguably function as a subcategory of both mania and depression. Because thoughts on death can be associated with either the manic or the depressive state, morbidity consequently has to be attributable to both states as well. Jamison, conversely, only argues for an association between the depressive state and morbidity, stating, “additional diagnostic criteria [for the depressive state] include suicidal thinking […] and recurrent thoughts of death” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 13). She then explicitly claims that the “depressive, or melancholic, states are characterized by a morbidity and flatness of mood along with a slowing down of virtually all aspects of human thought, feeling, and behaviour that are most personally meaningful” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 18). While I agree that morbidity is more commonly associated with the depressive state, the fact remains that psychologists also attribute it to the manic state as well, and so I have endeavoured to provide examples in which morbidity surfaces in both states. In order to distinguish manic morbidity from depressive morbidity, I have generally categorized instances that involve obsession, frenzied thought, and morbidity 	
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    with mania, and instances that involve an explicit desire to die and morbidity with depression. For example, in a letter to Edmund Gosse on July 30th, 1887, Hardy writes, “We thought of you a good deal whilst you were away – fearing you might be melted down to a skeleton & pool of grease – but at any rate some part of you seems to have returned […] I am quite frantic to go off somewhere again – but must not” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 1, 166-7). Hardy’s thought process comes across as frenzied, vivid and rather absurd, and so I have labelled this entry as both manic and morbid. Other similar examples include a recollection by H. W. Nevison of a 1906 visit he shared with Hardy: Afterwards we went to a Lyons teashop […] and unfortunately, as we came out, he caught sight of a broadsheet announcing, ‘Family Murdered with a Penknife.’ He couldn’t get over that. The vision of the penknife seemed to fascinate him. But we parted most amiably. (Gibson 77-8) In this same article, Nevison describes a second visit to Max Gate in which, On an old plan of Dorchester, Hardy also pointed me out the hardly distinguishable spot where the gallows were marked. The subjects have for him a horrible fascination that comes of extreme sensitiveness to other people’s pain. I suppose that if we all had that intensity of imagination we should never do harm to any human being or animal or bird, certainly not in cruelty. (Gibson 79) Both of these examples include the word “fascinate,” implying an obsession with thoughts of death, murder and brutality in particular. This seemingly eerie fascination is reiterated in a letter Hardy wrote to J. H. Morgan in November of 1916: Many thanks for the copy of Land & Water containing your article that gives such graphic descriptions of the Front – the dead man peering into the distance is particularly striking. (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 5, 187) All of these examples reflect a fixation on morbid thoughts, yet these examples do not demonstrate the melancholic gloom associated with the depressive states, rather, they almost exhibit a sense of excitement and enthrallment in Hardy.  	
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   Conversely, the morbidity I associate with the depressive state is that of the  desire, explicitly stated, to leave this world. For example, in a letter to Emma on February 3rd, 1896, Hardy writes, “I have got over most of the fearful depression, slight headache &c., which I had up to last night - & made me feel I could not possibly stay on” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 2, 109). Similarly, in a letter to Rhoda Symons in November of 1908, Hardy states, “Death in itself is nothing to be feared: it is the steps to it that make us wince” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 3, 352) as well as “I came down here Saturday evening – very much depressed with London, &, alas, with life generally – which I should not be particularly sorry to take my leave of” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 4, 35) in a letter to Florence Henniker in 1909. Once more, in a letter to John Galsworthy in October of 1916, Hardy writes, “I don’t feel very hopeful about such things, & as I get older fall back upon the reflection that there is but one life for each individual & that happily it will soon be over” (Millgate Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy vol. 5, 182), and finally, in a letter to Clement Shorter Hardy states, “I am tired of birthdays (death-days are more interesting)” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 5, 218). All of these examples express morbidity alongside a sense of gloom and melancholia, and hence why these kinds of entries are paired with the depressive category as well.  4. Affective Aesthetic Expression: Jamison argues that it is precisely the “contrasting natures of the elated and depressive states [that] provide, for those with artistic or literary ability, a rich variety of experiences and sensations from which to create” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 128). It is important to note that this “creative work can act not only as a means of escape from pain, but also as a way of structuring chaotic emotions and thoughts, numbing pain  	
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    through abstraction and the rigours of disciplined thought, and creating a distance form the source of despair” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 123). The literary work that Hardy creates during fits of mania or bouts of depression, then, can arguably function as an expression of a mood, hence the title I have created for this category. Firstly, Jamison’s claim that creativity can function as a means of escape is reflected in a letter from Hardy to Siegfried Sassoon on May 18th, 1917, stating “I don’t know how I should stand the suspense of this evil time if it were not for the sustaining power of poetry” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 5, 213). Hardy was intensely aware of the fact that his poetry expressed the mood he was in at the moment of its conception, evidenced by the analysis of several specific letters and journal entries. This awareness reflects Jamison’s claim that “creative work can act […] as a way of structuring chaotic emotions and thoughts” (Jamison Touched with Fire, 123); creative work essentially harnesses and structures emotionally dictated moods. This notion is expressed in Hardy’s “Explanatory Note to the Wessex Edition,” of Time’s Laughingstocks and Other Verses when he states, “Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of concord in pieces written at widely severed dates, and in contrasting moods and circumstances, will be obvious enough. This I cannot help” (Orel 43). Later, in a letter to Edmund Gosse in December of 1914, Hardy writes, “a poem expresses a mood that sometimes ends with the very writing of it” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 5, 66) and, similarly, his secretary recalls an instance in which Hardy declared, “‘I may not write a word for a fortnight,’ he said to his friend Newman Flower; ‘but it is discipline – on one of those mornings of discipline the mood comes – and I write’” (Cox Thomas Hardy: More Materials vol. 2, 31). In recalling exactly how Hardy  	
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    came to the decision to use poetry to harness the emotional creativity he experiences during mood swings, he states, A sense of the truth of poetry, of its supreme place in literature, had awakened itself in me. At the risk of ruining all my worldly prospects I dabbled in it…was forced out of it…It came back upon me…All was of the nature of being led by a mood, without foresight, or regard to whither it led. (F. Hardy The Later Years, 185) Evidently, Hardy was attentive to the fact that his poetry was guided by his moods, and consequently the resultant poetry is an aesthetic expression of affect – a “spontaneous product that comes of itself” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 7, 36). A survey of entries exhibiting instances of affective aesthetic expression would not be complete without including examples that refer to the poetic embodiment of feelings and emotions. For example, in October of 1897, Hardy writes, “Poetry is emotion put into measure” (F. Hardy The Later Years, 78), later stating that “that form of expression [verse] seems to fit my thoughts better as I grow older, as it did when I was young also” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 3, 43) – Hardy finds “the condensed expression that [poetry] affords so much more consonant to [his] natural way of thinking & feeling” (Millgate Collected Letters vol. 3, 133). Finally, Hardy believes that “The artist can make a beautiful work of art out of the representation of things not beautiful in themselves, provided those things move him to emotion, & he expresses that emotion in his art” (Bjork The Literary Notebooks vol. 2, 207). Consequently, for Hardy, the poetic form provides him with the means to express emotion. It is interesting to note that Hardy often uses the term ‘temperament’ when discussing poetry and affect: “Hardy said that all imaginative work was events seen through a temperament. The unconscious or conscious selection by the personality of the  	
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    author must colour the work” (Gittings 113-4). Hardy is apparently using ‘temperament’ in the same manner in which he uses ‘mood,’ therefore it can be argued that his literary work expresses not only a mood but a temperament. This is significant because psychologists use the term ‘temperament’ to refer to abnormal extremes of mood, or moods associated with mental illness. Perhaps most fascinating is a note found in Hardy’s literary notebooks, in which he asks, “Does the artist show himself to be a man of normal or abnormal temperament? (Bjork The Literary Notebooks vol. 2, 33) – little did he know scholars would be asking the same question of him a century later. Explanatory Key: - [ ] are used to indicate my own alterations to the text. -  Words that are written in italics and found within ( ) are used for citations.  -  Words that are not written in italics and are found within ( ) are a preservation of the original text, as seen in Entry #6, unless otherwise specified, as seen in Entry #5, for example.  -  Words that are underlined and are found within the body of the entry are a preservation of the original text.  -  Words that are written in italics and are found within the body of the entry are a preservation of the original text.  -  … found within the body of an entry are a preservation of the original text.  -  Entries are organized by date.  -  Entries are numbered in order to allow for the cross-referencing located in the Index, which is found at the end of the document.  	
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   -  You will notice that titles of literary works within the body of the entries are not written in italics – this is to preserve the original text.  Cautionary Note: I have endeavoured to preserve the text in its original form to the best of my ability, therefore grammatical errors, abbreviated terms, and the way in which the text appears on the page is that of the author him/herself.  	
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    Bibliographic Survey 1. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Bockhampton, Dorset: 10 September 1868), letter to Alexander Macmillan. Mania and Depression. Dear Sir, I have become anxious to hear from you again. As the days go on, & you do not write, & my production begins to assume that small and unimportant shape everything one does assumes as the time & mood in which one did it recedes from the present. I almost feel that I don’t care what happens to the book. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 9) 2. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 30 April 1870. Mania. Thought seems to be epidemic. No sooner is a conviction come to than it appears in print. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 29) 3. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), May 1870. Depression and Morbidity. A sweet face is a page of sadness to a man over thirty – the raw material of a corpse. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 29) 4. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 12 June 1870. Depression. In growing older, the nearer we approach an age which once seemed to us hoar antiquity the less old does its inherent nature seem. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 29) 5. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), August 1870. Mania and Depression. We are continually associating our ideas of a modern humanity with bustling movement, struggle and progress. But a more imposing feature of the human mass is its passivity. Poets write of ‘a motion toiling through the gloom:’ you examine: it is not there. (Editor’s Note: Hardy was interested in telepathy, the sporadic movement and appearance of ideas, and the working of the unconscious mind, before others of his countrymen. He made this note when he was thirty.) (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 30-1) 6. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 30 October 1870. Mania and Morbidity. Mother’s notion (and also mine) – that a figure stands in our van with arm uplifted, to knock us back from any pleasant prospect we indulge in as probable. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 32) 7. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1 December 1870. Mania.  	
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   An experience hard-won by an inferior mind often prompts a remark of profundity and originality not to be surpassed by one of far superior calibre. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 33)  8. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), January 1871. Depression. A mistake often made in foretelling a young man’s career – that a given amount of brain power will result in a proportionate success – so many units, so much product. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 33) 9. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), January 1871. Mania and Depression. Lying just after waking. The sad possibilities of the future are more vivid than at any other time. A man is no longer a hero in his own eyes: even the laughing child may have now a foretaste of his manhood’s glooms: the man of the neglect and contumely which may wait upon his old age. It is the supremely safe time for deciding upon money ventures: no false hope tempts one to run a dangerous risk. In fact, as the man who acts upon what he resolved before sleeping is the man of the most brilliant success and disastrous failures, so the man who abides by what he thought at dawn is he who is found afterwards in the safe groove of respectable mediocrity. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 33-4) 10. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), February 1871. Depression. Some men waste their time in watching their own existence. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 35) 11. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), February 1871. Mania. Nothing is so interesting to a woman as herself. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 35) 12. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), February 1871. Mania. Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 35) 13. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), March 1871. Depression. Lonely places in the country have each their own peculiar silences. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 36) 14. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 29 May 1871. Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. The most prosaic man becomes a poem when you stand by his grave at his funeral and think of him. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 37)  	
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    15. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), August 1872. Mania. At Beeny Cliff…green towards the land, blue-back towards the sea. Every ledge has a little, starved, green grass upon it: all vertical parts bare. Seaward, a darkgrey ocean beneath a pale green sky, upon which lie branches of red cloud. A lather of foam round the base of each rock. The sea is full of motion internally, but still as a whole. Quiet and silent in the distance, noisy and restless close at hand. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 38) 16. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 11 September 1872. Mania. London. Saw a lady who, when she smiled, smiled all over her face and chin, round to her ears and up among her hair so that you were surfeited with smiling and felt you would never smile any more. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 39) 17. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 9 November 1872. Mania and Morbidity. Went to Kingman’s early. A still morning: objects were as if at the bottom of a pool. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 39) 18. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 13 November 1872. Depression. The first frost of autumn. Outdoor folk look reflective. The scarlet runners are dishevelled: geraniums wounded in the leaf, open-air cucumber leaves have collapsed like green umbrellas with all the stays broken. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 39) 19. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 17 September 1873. Mania. One man is genius in trifles, a fool in emergencies: another a fool in trifles and a genius in emergencies. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 43) 20. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 3 November 1873. Mania and Morbidity. A sunset: a brazen sun with a thousand spines which stuck into and tormented my eyes. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 43) 21. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), December 1873. Mania and Depression. The originator of a depressing mental view, mood, or idea, is less permanently affected by its contemplation than are those who imbibe it from him at secondhand. Jeremiah probably retired to rest at night and slept soundly long before the listeners to his fearful words closed their eyes, even though the miseries he spoke of would affect him no less than themselves. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 44-5)  	
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    22. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Bockhampton, Dorset: 7 May 1874), letter to Helen Paterson. Depression Dear Miss Paterson, I send a few particulars of the story, which may or may not be of use to you. Should you require any other information, or any sketch, I will if possible forward it, though I am afraid my drawing will be a somewhat melancholy performance beside yours. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 30) 23. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), June 1874. Mania and Morbidity. My Aunt Sharpe died in Canada the Sunday before August 30, 1859, at 4 p.m. at Paris, British North America. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 48) 24. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorset: July 1874), letter to Thomas Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. My work, unlike your work of writings, does not occupy my true mind much. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 3) 25. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 19 December 1874. Depression and Morbidity. Long Ditton. Snow on the graves. A superfluous piece of cynicism in Nature. (Editor’s Note: Perhaps Hardy was thinking of Horace Moule’s grave – the latter had been dead little more than fifteen months – but in journeying by rail to town he would have passed the large and depressing Earlsfield cemetery. It is characteristic of Hardy to read into Nature a purposeful malignity). (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 50) 26. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 16 June 1875. Mania. Reading the Life of Goethe. Schlegel says that ‘the deepest want and deficiency of all modern art lies in the fact that the artists have no mythology.’ (Editor’s Note: This is an interesting note: Hardy’s mind was mythopoeic, as well as analytic, and although he continually strove to impose the dictates of reason, his interest in the occult, in the unconscious, and in myth and legend continued to obtrude, almost to his astonishment). (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 51) 27. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), August 1876. Mania. Rain: like a banner of gauze waved in fold across the scene. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 51) 28. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), September 1877. Mania. Rapid riding by night – the moon and stars racing after, and the trees and fields slipping behind. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 51)  	
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    29. Hardy, T. Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, (Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1966), 30 November 1878. Mania. […] In the printing of standard speech hardly any phonetic principle at all is observed; and if a writer attempts to exhibit on paper the precise accents of a rustic speaker he disturbs the proper balance of a true representation by unduly insisting upon the grotesque element; thus directing attention to a point of inferior interest, and diverting it from the speaker’s meaning, which is by far the chief concern where the aim is to depict men and their natures rather than their dialect forms. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 91) 30. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 2 March 1879. Mania. A sunset. The sun a vast bulb of crimson pulp. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 52) 31. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), July 1879. Mania. A rain sunset. The sun streaming his yellow rays through the wet atmosphere like straying hair. The wet ironwork and the wet slates shine. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 53) 32. Douglas, Sir G. “Reminiscence” (no date, refers to 1881). Mania. […] As I view him, then, Hardy was at his best and happiest about the year ’81. Besides his work – ever with him the first consideration – there were, of course, other things to minister to his happiness – most notable his wedded life, and the unmistakable, though all too slow, recognition by the public of his work. He was one whose appearance, in the over forty years during which I continued to see him, changed less than that of almost any man I have known, the groundwork, as I may call it, remaining consistently the same. And yet the Hardy of 1881 was a robuster figure than any I ever saw again, robuster and less over-weighted by care. His talk, too, was light and cheerful – mainly about literature […] All the more interesting, then, was his conversation, ever quiet in tone, and absolutely spontaneous in form and substance, which one felt to be a true ‘growth of the soil.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 16-7) 33. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Upper Tooting, London: 15 February 1881), letter to R. R. Bowker. Depression. […] Ill or well I shall be glad to see you – so don’t for a moment think otherwise. But as I stay in my bedroom I don’t press anybody to come, feeling that it is rather a dreary place to invite friends to. Perhaps however you will put up with what cannot be avoided. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 87) 34. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1882. Mania and Morbidity. Burial of suicides at cross-roads abolished about 1830. A stake driven through it between nine and twelve. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 63)  	
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    35. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1883. Mania. The Autobiography of a Card Table. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 63) 36. Hardy, T. Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, (Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1966), July 1883. Mania and Depression. […] Misery and fever lurk in his cottage, while, to paraphrase the words of a recent writer on the labouring classes, in his future there are only the workhouse and the grave. He hardly dares to think at all. He has few thoughts of joy, and little hope of rest. His life slopes into a darkness not ‘quieted by hope.’ […] He would have learnt that wherever a mode of supporting life is neither noxious nor absolutely inadequate, there springs up happiness, and will spring up happiness, of some sort or other. Indeed, it is among such communities as these that happiness will find her last refuge on earth, since it is among them that a perfect insight into the conditions of existence will be longest postponed. […] The pleasures enjoyed by the Dorset labourer may be far from pleasures of the highest kind desirable for him. They may be pleasures of the wrong shade. And the inevitable glooms of a straitened hard-working life occasionally enwrap him from such pleasures as he has; and in times of special storm and stress the ‘Complaint of Piers the Ploughman’ is still echoed in his heart. […] Drudgery in the slums and alleys of a city, too long pursued, and accompanied as it too often is by indifferent health, may induce a mood of despondency which is well-nigh permanent; but the same degree of drudgery in the fields results at worst in a mood of painless passivity. […] He is evidently a lonely man. The battle of life has always been a sharp one with him, for, to begin with, he is a man of small frame. He is now bowed by hard work and years that, approaching from behind, you can scarcely see his head. […] With uncertainty of residence often comes laxer morality, and more cynical views of the duties of life. Domestic stability is a factor in conduct which nothing else can equal. On the other hand, new varieties of happiness evolve themselves like new varieties of plants, and new charms may have arisen among the classes who have been driven to adopt the remedy of locomotion for the evils of oppression and poverty – charms which compensate in some measure for the lost sense of home. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 168-82) 37. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Wimborne, Dorset: 21 January 1883), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] We are literally in an atmosphere of mud down here. Oh you should see Poole now. – But rather be thankful that you don’t see Poole, if you have any respect for her. We were discussing just now the curiously tonic effect (morally) of having to get up by candlelight on a dark morning early for some bustling mean utilitarian purpose. If you have not tried the plan do so next time you feel in a nervous overdone state. I trust however, & believe, that you never reach any  	
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   such unhappy condition. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 1145)  38. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1885. Mania and Morbidity. Great-Uncle John of P – used to wear a blue coat, brass buttons, cord breeches and leather gaiters; and an apron twisted round him. He died aged 63. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 65), 39. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 18 August 1886), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] Can you come now? Our life here is lonely & cottage-like, as you know. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 151) 40. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 September 1886), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] On looking at the map I see that Broadway is not quite such a crazy place (if you’ll excuse the expression) for intellectual people to put up at as I at first supposed. On a tricycle you might do wonders. By the by why did we not talk of tricycles? I am much exercised about them – not on them as yet. I feel quite a sinking in my inside when I think how sadly I neglected to plan a good excursion – that terrible kettle at the Bridport pot-house rising as an accusing spectre. But give me another chance, please. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 151) 41. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 October 1886), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] But I do seriously think that the article is a strong argument against anonymous journalism. I have suffered terribly at times from reviews – pecuniarily & still more mentally, & the crown of my bitterness has been my sense of unfairness in such an impersonal means of attack, wh. conveys to an unthinking public the idea of an immense weight of opinion behind, to which you can only oppose your own little solitary personality: when the truth is that there is only another little solitary personality against yours all the time. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 154) 42. Hardy, E., Emma Hardy Diaries, (Manchester: Carcanet New Press Ltd., 1985), 14 March 1887. Mania. […] We went to the buffet & found a dinner ready, excellent dinner soup, fish patty, beef and potato mashed, fowl spinach, vanilla cream, etc. Paid 6 Francs each. Tom very vexed. Dyspeptic before and worse now. (Emma Hardy Diaries, 113) 43. Hardy, E., Emma Hardy Diaries, (Manchester: Carcanet New Press Ltd., 1985), 23 March 1887. Depression.  	
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   […] Had tea with the Baxters’ girls & Father & all, then came back to dinner. Talked in the drawing-room & came into this bedroom to write this. Tom is quite wearied out & in his bed. (Emma Hardy Diaries, 128)  44. Hardy, E., Emma Hardy Diaries, (Manchester: Carcanet New Press Ltd., 1985), 29 March 1887. Mania. […] Tuesday came to Hotel Allemagne. I rested in afternoon. Tom went out & nearly lost himself trying to find baths of Caracalla & dragged about. (Emma Hardy Diaries, 142) 45. Hardy, E., Emma Hardy Diaries, (Manchester: Carcanet New Press Ltd., 1985), 30 March 1887. Depression. […] Wednesday I felt well – Tom rather weak. (Emma Hardy Diaries, 142) 46. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 12 July 1887), letter to Lord Lytton. Depression. […] The misfortune of novelists nowadays is that they seldom can learn the opinion of competent judges – still less imaginative ones – printed criticism of light literature being for the most part from the pens of beginnings, any of whom are considered good enough to review a novel. I fear too that the same fate usually attends writers of verse: I hope your new volume may not suffer from any such cause. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 107) 47. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 July 1887), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Morbidity. My dear Gosse, I have just got back here in time to receive your note & enclosure from the Critic, which it is kind of you to send. We thought of you a good deal whilst you were away – fearing you might be melted down to a skeleton & pool of grease – but at any rate some part of you seems to have returned. I hope you enjoyed the trip. I am quite frantic to go off somewhere again – but must not – Yours sincerely Thomas Hardy. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 166-7) 48. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 August 1887), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] I wish I could have seen R. L. Stevenson: will he ever come back? I imagine, although you do not say so, that he was in the same high-spirited ardent mood we are accustomed to look upon as his natural state, irrespective of circumstances. As to despondency, I have known the very depths of it – you would be quite shocked if I were to tell you how many weeks & months in bygone years I have gone to bed wishing never to see daylight again. This blackest state of mind was however several years ago - & seldom recurs now. One day I was saying to myself ‘Why art thou so heavy, O my soul, & why art thou so disquieted within me?” I could not help answering “Because you eat that pastry after a long walk, &  	
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   would not profit by experience.’ The stomach is no doubt a main cause, if there is no mental reason: but I totally disagree with those who insist upon blaming the stomach always. In my worst times years ago my digestion was as sound as a labourer’s. Devonshire in September is lovely. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 167)  49. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 10 January 1888), letter to Lady Margaret Wallop. Mania. Dear Lady Margaret Wallop, I am glad to hear that the story is liked at Eggesford. It is founded on fact. I have some more creepy ones in my mind: yes – creepier ones still! But at present those are put aside for some heavier writing, an essay on Profitable reading which I unluckily promised an Editor - & must get finished somehow. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 172) 50. Hardy, T. Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, (Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1966), March 1888. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] If we speak of deriving good from a story, we usually mean something more than the gain of pleasure during the hours if its perusal. Nevertheless, to get pleasure out of a book is a beneficial and profitable thing, if the pleasure be of a kind which, while doing no moral injury, affords relaxation and relief when the mind is overstrained or sick of itself. The prime remedy in such cases is change of scene, by which, change of the material scene is not necessarily implied. A sudden shifting of the mental perspective into a fictitious world, combined with rest, is well known to be often as efficacious for renovation as a corporeal journey affair. In such a case the shifting of scene should manifestly be as complete as if the reader had taken the hind seat on a witch’s broomstick. The town man finds what he seeks in novels of the country, the countryman in novels of society, the indoor class generally in the outdoor novels, the villager in novels of the mansion, the aristocrat in novels of the cottage. The narrative must be of a somewhat absorbing kind, if not absolutely fascinating. […] In reading for such hygienic purposes it is, of course, of the first consequence that the reader be not too critical. In other words, his author should be swallowed whole, like any other alternative pill. He should be believed in slavishly, implicitly. However profusely he may pour out his coincidences, his marvellous juxtapositions, his catastrophes, his conversions of bad people into good people at a stroke, and vice versa, let him never be doubted for a moment. When he exhibits people going out of their way and spending their money on purpose to act consistently, or taking a great deal of trouble to move in a curious and roundabout manner when a plain, straight course lies open to them; when he shows that heroes are never faithless in love, and that the unheroic always are so, there should arise a conviction that this is precisely according to personal experience. Let the invalid reverse the attitude of a certain class of critics – now happily becoming less numerous – who only allow themselves to be interested in a novel by the defeat of a generous imaginativeness, which shall find in a tale not  	
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   only all that was put there by the author, put it ever so awkwardly, but which shall find there what was never inserted by him, never foreseen, never contemplated. Sometimes these additions which are woven around a work of fiction by the intensitive power of the reader’s own imagination are the finest parts of the scenery. […] As stated above, the aim should be contrast. Directly the circumstances begin to resemble those of the reader, a personal connection, an interest other than an imaginative one, is set up, which results in an intellectual stir that is not in the present case to be desired. It sets his serious thoughts at work, and he does not want them stimulated just now; he wants to dream. […] Directly we descend from the highest levels we find that the majority are not effectual in their ostensible undertaking, that of giving us a picture of life in action; they exhibit a machinery which often works awkwardly, and at the instigation of unlikely beings. Yet, being packed with thoughts of some solidity, or more probably sprinkled with smart observations on men and society, they may be read with advantage even by the critical, who, for what they bring, can forgive the audible workings of the wheels and wires and carpentry, heard behind the performance, as the wires and trackers of a badly constructed organ are heard under its tones. […] Our true object is a lesson in life, mental enlargement from elements essential to the narratives themselves, and form the reflections they engender. […] In pursuance of his quest for a true exhibition of man, the reader will naturally consider whether he feels himself under the guidance of a mind who sees further into life than he himself has seen; or, at least, who can throw a stronger irradiation over subjects already within his ken that he has been able to do unaided. The new light needs not to be set off by a finish of phraseology or incisive sentences of subtle definition. The treatment may be baldly incidental, without inference or commentary […] It is the force of an appeal to the emotional reason rather than to the logical reason; for by their emotions men are acted upon, and act upon others. […] He [the reader] will see what his author is aiming at, and by affording full scope to his own insight, catch the vision which the writer has in his eye, and is endeavouring to project upon the paper, even while it half eludes him. He will invariably discover that, however numerous the writer’s excellencies, his is what is called unequal; he has a specialty. This especial gift is being discovered, he fixes his regard more particularly thereupon. It is frequently not that feature in an author’s work which common repute has given him credit for; more often it is, while coexistent with his popular attribute, overshadowed by it lurking like a violet in the shade of the more obvious, possibly more vulgar, talent, but for which it might have received high attention. Behind the broad humour of one popular pen he discerns startling touches of weirdness; amid the colossal fancies of another he sees strokes of the most exquisite tenderness; and the unobtrusive quality may grow to have more charm for him than the palpable one.  	
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   It must always be borne in mind, despite claims of realism, that the best fiction, like the highest artistic expression in other modes, is more true, so to put it, than history or nature can be. […] To distinguish truths which are temporary from truths which are eternal, the accidental from the essential, accuracies as to custom and ceremony form accuracies as to the perennial procedure of humanity, is of vital importance in our attempts to read for something more than amusement. […] And thus we are led to the conclusion that, in respect of our present object, our concern is less with the subject treated than with its treatment. There have been writers of fiction, as of poetry, who can gather grapes of thorns and figs of thistles. […] Considerations as to the rank or station in life from which characters are drawn can have but little value in regulating the choice of novels for literary reasons, and the reader may leave thus much to the mood of the moment […] It proceeds from the assumption that a novel is the thing, and not a view of the thing. It forgets that the characters, however they may differ, express mainly the author, his largeness of heart or otherwise, his culture, his insight, and very little of any other living person, except in such an inferior kind of procedure as might occasionally be applied to dialogue, and would take the narrative out of the category of fiction; i.e., verbatim reporting without selective judgment. […] In the one case the author’s word has to be taken as to the nerves and muscles of his figures; in the other they can be seen as in an écorché. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 110-125)  51. Bowker, R. “Thomas Hardy: The Dorset Novelist,” Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, (June 1888). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] His characters, in fact, do become entirely real to him, though for a long time he finds difficulty in making acquaintance with them, and particularly in calling them by name, so that Mrs. Hardy, always his first reader and kind critic, sometimes has to suggest that this John Jones is really Daniel Smith. But soon the characters take possession of him and of the story, he comes to know what each will think and will do in given circumstances, and for this reason he never plots the final development, the latter half of a novel, but lets the dramatis personae finish it for themselves, and literally work out their own salvation or the contrary. In his working days he tries to begin work at once after breakfast, and sometimes succeeds in keeping steadily at work during the forenoon, but more frequently his work is done at fitful and irregular periods. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 14) 52. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 December 1888), letter to Eliza Lynn Linton. Depression. […] My wife and I live in comparative solitude in our little house here for six months of the year & more, & we sometimes think that though we meet a good many people when we are away, we secure very few real & permanent friends, people in London having a habit of looking upon you as dead if you are outside the 4 mile circle […] I am just in the worrying stage of coming to a decision upon  	
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   my leading idea of a long story planned sometime ago; & between my own conviction of what is truest to life, & what editors & critics will tolerate as being true to their conventional principles, bless them! I get an unpleasant time, till the thing is settled. I wish I could sometimes consult you! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 111)  53. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 14 April 1989), letter to John Addington Symonds. Depression. […] The tragical conditions of life imperfectly denoted in The Return of the Native & some other stories of mine I am less & less able to keep out of my work. I often begin a story with the intention of making it brighter & gayer than usual; but the question of conscience soon comes in; & it does not seem right, even in novels, to wilfully believe one’s own views. All comedy, is tragedy, if you only look deep enough into it. A question which used to trouble me was whether we ought to write sad stories, considering how much sadness there is in the world already. But of late I have come to the conclusion that, the first step towards cure of, or even relief from, any disease being to understand it, the study of tragedy in fiction may possibly here & there be the means of showing how to escape the worst forms of it, at least, in real life. I, too, am in a sense exiled. I too was obliged to leave Town after a severe illness some years ago - & the spot on which I live here is very lonely. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 190) 54. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 November 1889), letter to Walter Besant. Mania. […] If I have anything to throw into the lottery at some future time I will communicate with Watt. At present I am quite in a muddle, & hardly know how I stand committed by promises &c. And I have cut the tip of my thumb with my new pocket-knife & write with difficulty. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 112) 55. Hardy, T. Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, (Kansas: University of Kansas Press, 1966), January 1890. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Even the imagination is the slave of stolid circumstance; and the unending flow of inventiveness which finds expression in the literature of Fiction is no exception to the general law. It is conditioned by its surroundings like a riverstream. The varying character and strength of literary creation at different times may, indeed, at first sight seem to be the symptoms of some inherent, arbitrary, and mysterious variation; but if it were possible to compute, as in mechanics, the units of power or faculty, revealed and unrevealed, that exist in the world at stated intervals, an approximately even supply would be disclosed. […] What are the prevalent views of life just now is a question upon which it is not necessary to enter further than to suggest that the most natural method of presenting them, the method most in accordance with the views themselves, seems to be by a procedure mainly impassive in its tone and tragic in its developments. This move in cycles, dormant principles renew themselves, and exhausted principles are thrust by. There is a revival of the artistic instincts  	
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   towards great dramatic motives – setting forth that ‘collision between the individual and the general’ – formerly worked out with such force by the Periclean and Elizabethan dramatists, to name no other. More than this, the periodicity which marks the course of taste in civilized countries does not take the form of a true cycle of repetition, but what Comte, in speaking of general progress, happily characterizes as “a looped orbit”: not a movement of revolution but – to use the current word – evolution. […] As far as the magazine is concerned it had long been obvious that as a vehicle for fiction dealing with human feeling on a comprehensive scale it is tottering to its fall. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 125-33)  56. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 January 1890), letter to Louise Chandler Moulton. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I have lately been away from home, & since returning have been caught by the influenza: which will explain why I have not written to acknowledge the receipt of your beautiful ‘Garden of Dreams’ till now. I have read a good many of the poems – nearly all of which are penetrated by the supreme quality, emotion, without which verse is not poetry, & the lack of which is so apparent in the mass of modern rhyme. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 208) 57. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 February 1890), letter to Rosamund Tomson. Mania and Depression. […] I have been unwell ever since the beginning of January & feel everything a weight – though I am not really ill. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 209) 58. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Savile Club, London: 24 January 1891), letter to Emma Hardy. Mania. I have been feeling anxious about your adventures – and wonder if it rained with you last night as it did here: if so it must have been unpleasant getting to Pearce Edgcumbe’s. I hope your cold is better: the air is much softer now – so that probably you have escaped a bad cold. (‘Dearest Emmie’ – Thomas Hardy’s Letters to His First Wife, 13) 59. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 11 April 1891), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Mania and Depression. […] I am glad you are not in town for your own sake, though not for mine, everything being so dull. A certain lack of energy I feel may be owing to my having hitherto kept to milk and water as a beverage in alternation to tea. I went to the Gaiety theatre last night – some of the burlesque was funny – some of it stupid. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 230-1) 60. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 13 April 1891), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression.  	
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   […] The weather is not quite so bad today – but I have very little zest for London, & cannot get up any interest in theatres or other entertainments. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 231)  61. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 16 April 1891), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression. […] I think we must settle down in a quiet lodging, where I can work, for I am quite indifferent to society at present. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 232) 62. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 18 April 1891), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression. […] I received your letter this morning – after a night of slight headache. I am not very vigorous yet - & care to get some lodgings not very central, & read a good deal […] I have had some tea, and the headache has gone off somewhat. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 232-3) 63. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Mandeville Place, London: 4 May 1891), letter to H. Rider Haggard. Mania and Morbidity. […] Please give my kind regards to Mrs. Haggard, & tell her how deeply our sympathy was with you both in your bereavement. Though, to be candid, I think the death of a child is never really to be regretted when one reflects on what he has escaped. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 235) 64. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Mandeville Place, London: 15 July 1891), letter to Lord Lytton. Mania , Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I feel that considerable good nature must have tempered your critical eye. I am truly glad however, to know that any pleasure has been given by what is, I fear, rather a frivolous piece of work, which I took in hand in a sort of desperation during a fit of low spirits –. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 239) 65. Hardy, T. “Explanatory Note to the First Edition,” Tess of the d’Ubervilles, (November 1891). Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I will just add that the story is sent out in a sincerity of purpose, as an attempt to give artistic form to a true sequence of things. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 26) 66. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 January 1892), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania. […] Well: what a couple of days we had down at Aldeburgh! – I shall never forget their bracing effect – mental and physical. When you come here our air & society shall do the same for you. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 254)  	
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    67. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 29 February 1892), letter to William Blackwood. Mania. […] PS – One thing I should like to tell your reviewer: that I myself as a child, brought up according to strict Church principles, devoutly believed in the devil’s pitchfork. T.H. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 259) 68. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 March 1892), letter to Roden Noel. Mania and Morbidity. […] So far from being bored by your ideas expressed in that letter I was deeply interested, & they started me off on a mental journey into the infinite – whatever that may be. I hope you will not mind my owing to a mistrust of metaphysic. My shyness arises from my consciousness of its paternity – that it is a sort of bastard, begotten of science upon theology – or, in another form, a halfway house between Deism and Materialism. It ultimately comes to this – such & such things may be. But they will never be improbable: & since infinitely other things may also be, with equal probability, why select any one bundle of suppositions in preference to another? I prefer to relegate such thoughts to the domain of fancy, & to recognize them as pure imagination […] What you, & so many others, have called Pessimism is, after all, to be regarded as such only in respect to a fancy-standard. Pessimism is used arbitrarily of such views, say, as mine: but it is really only a relative term. Suppose the conditions of existence on this earth to change to such a degree that normal life becomes that period to be what we now call tortures, our present pessimism will be optimism to those unhappy souls. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. One, 261-2) 69. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 April 1892), letter to Sir George Douglas. Depression. My dear Douglas: Yes – your letter did reach me duly; there lies the guilt of your unhappy friend. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 121) 70. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), Good Friday 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] How strange that one may write a book without knowing what one puts into it – or rather, the reader reads into it. Well, if this sort of thing continues no more novel-writing for me. A man must be a fool to deliberately stand up to be shot at. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 7) 71. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 26 June 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. June 26. Considered methods for the Napoleon drama: Forces; emotions, tendencies. The characters do not act under the influence of reason. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 9)  	
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    72. Blathwayt, R. “A Chat with the Author of Tess,” Black and White, (27 August 1892). Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Mr Hardy replied: ‘Exactly. That is what I have striven to show. I have adhered to human nature. I draw no inferences, I don’t even feel them. I only try to give an artistic shape to standing facts.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 40) 73. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 4 September 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. […] Among the many stories of spell-working that I have been told, the following is one of how it was done by two girls about 1830. They killed a pigeon, stuck its heart full of pins, made a tripod of three knitting needles, and suspended the heart on them over a lamp, murmuring an incantation while it roasted, and using the name of the young man in whom one or both were interested. The said young man felt racking pains about the region of the heart, and suspecting something went to the constables. The girls were sent to prison. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 11) 74. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), End of September 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. […] Drove home from dining with McIlvaine at the Café Royal, behind a horse who had no interest in me, was going a way he had no interest in going, and was shipped by a man who had no interest in me, or the horse, or the way. Amid this string of compulsions reached home. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 13) 75. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), October 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. […] The silence is remarkable…Though I am alive with the living I can only see the dead here, and am scarcely conscious of the happy children at play. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 13) 76. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 7 October 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. October 7. Tennyson died yesterday morning. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 13) 78. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 18 October 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. October 18. Hurt my tooth at breakfast-time. I look in the glass. Am conscious of the humiliating sorriness of my earthly tabernacle, and of the sad fact that the best of parents could not do better for me. Why should a man’s mind have been thrown into such close, sad, sensational, inexplicable relations with such a precautious object as his own body. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 13-4) 79. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 24 October 1892. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity.  	
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   October 24. The best tragedy – highest tragedy in short – is that of the WORTHY encompassed by the INEVITABLE. The tragedies of immoral and worthless people are not of the best. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 14)  80. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 23 February 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] The whole secret of fiction and the drama – in the constructional part – lies in the adjustment of things unusual to things eternal and universal. The writer who knows exactly how exceptional, and how non-exceptional, his events should be made, possesses the key to the art. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 16) 81. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 19 April 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. April 19. Thought while dressing, and seeing people go by their offices, how strange it is that we should talk so glibly of ‘this cold world which shows no sympathy,’ when this is the feeling of so many components of the same world – probably a majority – and nearly everyone’s neighbour is waiting to give and receive sympathy. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 17) 82. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 25 April 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. 25. Courage has been idealized; why not Fear? – which is a higher consciousness, and based on a deeper insight. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 17) 83. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 27 April 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. […] The worst of taking a furnished house is that that articles in the rooms are saturated with the thoughts and glances of others. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 17) 84. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 23 May 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. 23. Morley came to lunch. In the afternoon I went with H. Lucy to the scene of the Phoenix Park Murders. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 19) 85. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 24 May 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. […] She showed me the rooms in which the bodies of Lord F. Cavendish and Mr. Burke were placed, and told some gruesome details of the discovery of a roll of bloody clothes under the sofa after the entry of the succeeding Secretary. The room had been cleaned out since the murders. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 19) 86. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 31 July 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania.  	
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   […] I consider a social system based on individual spontaneity to promise better for happiness than a curbed and uniform one under which all temperaments are bound to shape themselves to a single pattern of living. To this end I would have society divided into groups of temperaments, with a different code of observances for each group. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 23)  87. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 17 September 1893. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. September 17. At Bockhampton heard a story about eels that was almost gruesome – how they jumped out of a bucket at night, crawled all over the house and half-way up the stairs, their tails being heard swishing in the dark, and were ultimately found in the garden; and when water was put to them to wash off the gravel and earth they became lively and leapt about. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 25) 88. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 10 June 1893), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania. […] The evening of yesterday I spent in what I fear you will call a frivolous manner – indeed, during the time, my mind reverted to our Ibsen experience; and I could not help being regretfully struck by the contrast – although I honestly was amused […] Forgive this disjointed epistle form. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 13-4) 89. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 2 July 1893), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania. […] I adhere desperately to my plan, with poor results; but time may help it. I am glad to hear you enjoy the air, and take walks and drives. I sleep hardly at all, and seem not to require any. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 20) 90. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 13 July 1893), letter to Florence Henniker. Morbidity. […] I am afraid I am lapsing into a morbid mood; and my whole letter is very inadequate to the occasion, and to what should be written to such a valued correspondent. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 23) 91. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 16 July 1893), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. […] As to my beginning to write again Heaven only knows when I shall do it. – I feel much more inclined to fly off to foreign scenes or plunge into wild dissipation. Next week in London may bring some change of mood. And though at Lady J’s dinner I may be able to fill your place at table with some new female acquaintance she will certainly not remove my disappointment at your absence. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 23) 92. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Harley Street, London: 24 July 1893), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression.  	
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   […] I am very tired and am doing next to nothing. If I had not promised Sir H. Thompson to dine with him Wednesday I should have returned this morning. London is dreary and oppressive. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 27)  93. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 9 November 1893), letter to Lena Milman. Mania and Depression. […] What a nice walk we had down the dreary Edgware Road to the dreary underground station! And what dreary walks I sometimes take where everything outside is green and beautiful. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 42) 94. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 December 1893), letter to Lena Milman. Mania. […] I am burying myself alive here in hopes of doing a little writing; but you flit about gaily enough. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 45) 95. Tomson, R. “Untitled,” Independent, (22 November 1894). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] ‘Oh yes!’ I heard him say once, in answer to a passing query, ‘I have no trouble in thinking of plots; indeed. I have so many novels in my head that I am afraid I shall never have time to write them all. But, you know, it is rather a terrible thing, in its way, this literary habit. It becomes second nature: whenever I travel by train or omnibus, I find myself instinctively observing my fellowpassengers and constructing the story of their lives from what I see in their faces.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 45) 96. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), November 1894. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. […] Old P-----, who narrowly escaped hanging for arson about 1830, returned after his imprisonment, dies at West Strafford, his native village, and was buried there. His widow long after died in Fordington, having saved £5 to be buried with her husband. The rector of the village made no objection, and the grave was dug. Meanwhile the daughter had come home, and said the money was not enough to pay for carrying the body of her mother out there in the country; so the grave was filled in, and the woman buried where she died. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 34) 97. Dolman, F. “An Interview with Thomas Hardy,” The Young Man, (March 1894). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Hardy: ‘I have far more material now than I shall ever be able to make use of.’ Dolman: ‘In note-books?’ Hardy: ‘Yes, and in my head. I don’t believe that idea of a man’s imaginative powers becoming naturally exhausted; I believe that if he liked, a man could go on writing till his physical strength gave out. Most men exhaust themselves  	
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   prematurely by something artificial – their manner of living – Scott and Dickens for example. Victor Hugo, on the other hand who was so long in exile, and who necessarily lived a very simple life during much of his time, was writing as well as ever till he died at a good old age.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 42)  98. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 November 1894), letter to Mary Haweis. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] His interest in the Suffrage Cause is nil, in spite of ‘Tess’ & his opinions on the woman question not in her favour. He understands only the women he invents – the others not at all - & he only writes for Art, though ethics show up. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 6) 99. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Harley Street, London: 1 April 1895), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression. […] I feel absolutely unable to do anything here, unless I am in a place of my own. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 73) 100. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 27 April 1895), letter to Emma Hardy. Mania and Depression. […] I was afraid you might think by my advising you not to come till Tuesday that I did not want you here. Of course I do, as it is very lonely and dismal – I meant solely on your own account. If you don’t mind the wear and tear of changing lodgings etc. – you might come Monday to the Alexandra Club. But be sure you don’t start until you have secured the bedroom telegraph – and had a reply – as every place is crammed. At the hotel I am up in a miserable attic, nearly suffocated, and they are turning away scores of people every day. I may write again, if there is anything to say. (‘Dearest Emmie’ – Thomas Hardy’s Letters to His First Wife, 33-4) 101. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 24 July 1895), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression. […] George Curzon’s dinner I will accept, as I am all alone, & the evenings are dismal. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 82) 102. Hardy, T. “Preface to the First Edition,” Jude the Obscure, (August 1895). Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Like former productions of this pen, Jude the Obscure is simply an endeavour to give shape and coherence to a series of seemings, or personal impressions, the question of their consistency or their discordance, of the permanence or their transitoriness, being regarded as not of the first moment. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 33) 103. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 August 1895), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression.  	
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   […] I hope I have not seemed unkind in not sending a letter to meet you, as I did last year, & as I meant to do this. But I have been so ill since I saw you that I cd not write a line, & have got up for the first time today. It was a sudden attack of English cholera, & for four days I have been confined to bed & dosed with medicine & iced brandy. It stopped last night, & I have now only to regain strength, for I feel as you may suppose very shaky, though curiously enough I have been in good spirits throughout. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 83)  104. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 August 1895), letter to Winifred Thomson. Depression. […] I am chained here, to the drudgery of misplaced commas & new spellings of my dry old words. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 85) 105. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 14 November 1895), letter to William Archer. Mania and Depression. […] I did not think you wrote it. However unmannerly the book it does not equal the unmannerliness of the article. As an illustration of the grotesque contrasts in life the reviews are interesting: this being almost the first book of mine of which I feared that the Job-cum-Ezekiel moralist loomed too largely behind the would-be artist. I suppose the times are still too barbarous to allow one to strike a blow – however indirectly, for humanity towards man, woman, or the lower animals. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 96) 106. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 3 February 1896), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Depression and Morbidity. […] I have got over most of the fearful depression, slight headache &c., which I had up to last night - & made me feel I could not possibly stay on. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 109) 107. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Piccadilly, London: 16 July 1896), letter to Jeannette Gilder. Depression. […] But the fact remains that such a meeting would be painful to me and, I think, a disappointment to you. Moreover, my respect for my own writings & reputation is so very slight that I care little about what happens to either, so that the rectification of judgments, &c., & the way in which my books are interpreted, do not much interest me. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 126) 108. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 8 September 1896. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. September 8. Why true conclusions are not reached notwithstanding everlasting palaver: Men endeavour to hold to a mathematical consistency in things, instead of recognizing that certain things may both be good and mutually antagonistic: e.g., patriotism and universal humanity; unbelief and happiness.  	
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   There are certain questions which are made unimportant by their very magnitude. For example, the question whether we are moving in Space this way or that; the existence of a God, etc. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 54)  109. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Liege, Belgium: 24 September 1896), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania. My dear little friend: I have been wandering about over here since I last wrote, & have not stayed at any one place long enough to give it as an address. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 130) 110. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 November 1896), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. My dear friend: I am busy too, but not in such an attractive way as you seem to be, with ‘many letters & interests.’ But London, as I know, necessitates endless notes & engagements, which one escapes down here, with a loss of pleasure, & a gain of melancholy repose […] This January weather makes writing irksome: one wants to be continually moving about. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 138-9) 111. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 17 October 1896. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Poetry. Perhaps I can express more fully in verse ideas and emotions which run counter to the inert crystallized opinion – hard as a rock – which the vast body of men have vested interests in supporting. To cry out in a passionate poem that (for instance) the Supreme Mover or Movers, the Prime Force or Forces, must be either limited in power, unknowing, or cruel – which is obvious enough, and has been for centuries – will cause them merely a shake of the head; but to put it in an argumentative prose will make them sneer, or foam, and set all the literary contortionists jumping upon me, a harmless agnostic, as if I were a clamorous atheist, which in their crass illiteracy they seem to think is the same thing. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 57-8) 112. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 December 1896), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] I am so sorry to hear that you have felt overstrained. I have been all right in health, & have had a Christmas of the dull kind which contents so-called ‘pessimists’ like me – in its freedom from positive sorrows […] I have lately grown to feel that I should not so much care if I never set eyes on London again. Mrs. Sheridan, whom I have seen two or three times lately, agrees with me in being thankful for negative Christmases. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 141) 113. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), January 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression.  	
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   January. [The Novel is…] gradually losing artistic form, with a beginning, middle, and end, and becoming a spasmodic inventory of items, which has nothing to do with art. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 65)  114. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 January 1897), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] I have been thinking that of all men dead whom I should like to meet in the Elysian fields I would choose Shelley, not only for his unearthly, weird, wild appearance & genius, but for his genuineness, earnestness, & enthusiasms on behalf of the oppressed. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 144) 115. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 27 January 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. January 27. To-day has length, breadth, thickness, colour, smell, voice. As soon as it becomes yesterday it is a thin layer among many layers, without substance, colour, or articulate sound. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 58) 116. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 10 February 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. February 10. In spite of myself I cannot help noticing countenances and tempers in objects of scenery, e.g. trees, hills, houses. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 58) 117. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 February 1897), letter to Rebekah Owen. Mania. […] T. H. has ‘moved’ his Study for the fourth time in this house; he goes by it bit by bit, & book by book, leaving the room unfit for use till the workmen have been! (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 9) 118. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 March 1897), letter to Lady Jeune. Depression. […] I have been much surprised & distressed by a ferocious attack in The World on my poor little book. The chief reason why I consented to republish such a slight & fantastic account of the pursuit of a Visionary Ideal was that I felt it to be at least a harmless & amusing notion, & a book which nobody could say anything against: which had, too, some truth in it as an illustration of the genuine artistic temperament. After such a cruel misrepresentation I feel inclined to say I will never write another line. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 156) 119. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 March 1897), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] Since you last wrote I have read in The World that extraordinary stab in the back of my poor innocent little tale. At first I took the charge of immortality as a grotesque blunder of the reviewer or editor, not seeing the full meaning of the article, but now that I better realize the scope of it I am rather depressed by the thought that some people who have not read the book may believe him […] The  	
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   attack must have been dictated by personal malignity. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 156)  120. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 April 1897), letter to Algernon Charles Swinburne. Mania and Depression. […] And this reminds me that one day, when examining several English imitations of a well-known fragment of Sappho, I interested myself in trying to strike out a better equivalent for it than the commonplace ‘Thou, too, shalt die’ &c. which all the translators had used during the last hundred years. I then stumbled upon your ‘Thee, too, the years should cover,’ & all my spirit for poetic pains died out of me. Those few words present, I think, the finest drama of Death & Oblivion, so to speak, in our tongue. Having rediscovered this phrase, it carried me back to the buoyant time of 30 years ago, when I used to read your early works walking along the crowded London streets, to my imminent risk of being knocked down. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 158) 121. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 16 April 1897), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. My dear Gosse: I was supposing the dinner to which you have so kindly invited me to be quite an informal one: but if it is of a more stately kind I shall be glad to know that no speech will be asked for from me? I have become such a recluse that I could not possibly make one –. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 161) 122. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), July 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. […] But, which is ‘best’ of things that do not compare at all, and hence cannot be deduced to a common denominator? At any given moment we like best what meets the mood of that moment. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 71) 123. Hardy, E., Emma Hardy Diaries, (Manchester: Carcanet New Press Ltd., 1985), 1 July 1897. Mania and Depression. […] T. H. not well – lunched by myself – at Geneva. First Hotel. (Not good.) Got medicine, (oil) for T. H. Left Hotel & went Grand Hotel du Paix near the Lac. Very fine. (Musical box splendid. Geneva a great place for them - ) Fine view of Lake. Fine weather – T.H. better – we walked out. I went out by myself in evening to bridge. (Emma Hardy Diaries, 207) 124. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 13 August 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. August 13. All tragedy is grotesque – if you allow yourself to see it as such. A risky indulgence for any who have an aspiration towards a little goodness or greatness of heart! Yet there are those who do. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 72)  	
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    125. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 15 August 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. August 15. It is so easy nowadays to call any force above or under the sky by the name of ‘God’ – and so pass as orthodox cheaply, and fill the pocket! (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 72) 126. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), October 1897. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. There is no new poetry; but the new poet – if he carries the flame on further (and if not he is no new poet) – comes with a new note. And that new note is what troubles the critical waters. Poetry is emotion put into measure. The emotion must come by nature, but the measure can be acquired by art. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 78) 127. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 February 1898), letter to Elspeth Thomson. Mania and Depression. Dear Miss Thomson, Your charming valentine made me feel young again – very young, in fact: for I can just remember the time when written valentines were customary – before people became so idle as to get everything, even their love-making, done by machinery. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 186-7) 128. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 March 1898), letter to Sir George Douglas. Mania and Depression. My dear Douglas: If the road were not so long, & I were not so inert, I should certainly appear at your door, but I have no way of starting myself at this time of the year […] I forget if you bicycle. The advantage it has for literary people is that you can go out for a long distance without coming in contact with another mind, - not even a horse’s - & dissipating any little mental energy that has arisen in the course of a morning’s application. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 188) 129. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 9 April 1898), letter to Lady Grove. Depression. […] I think if I had won 100 louis at Monte Carlo I should drop the game before losing them: but then, games of chance never interest me, so perhaps I speak in too cold blooded a manner. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 189) 130. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Kensington, London: 26 May 1898), letter to Douglas Sladen. Depression. My dear Mr. Sladen, I would accept your kind invitation if I were accepting anything of the sort; but I am not dining out at all this year, having found that it does not suit me. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 194)  	
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    131. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 September 1898), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. […] I am in up & down spirits: - down as a rule. Stratford Place is one of the healthiest spots in London, & will certainly suit you better than the Chelsea district. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 202) 132. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 October 1898), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] Collecting the poems gave me some pleasure – in fact a good deal: but don’t expect much from them, or you may be grievously disappointed. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 204) 133. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1899. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Pessimism. Was there ever any great poetry which was not ‘pessimistic’? ‘All creation groaneth’ – etc. ‘Man that is born of woman’ – etc. ‘Man dieth and wasteth away’ – etc. ‘I go hence like a shadow that departeth’ – and other psalms. Is this pessimism, and if not, why not? The answer would probably be because remedy is offered. Well, the remedy tarries along. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 68-9) 134. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), January 1899. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. January (1899). No man’s poetry can be truly judged till its last line is written. What is the last line? The death of the poet. And hence there is this quaint consolation to any writer of verse – that it may be imperishable for all that anybody can tell him to the contrary; and that if worthless he can never know it, unless he be a greater adept at self-criticism than poets usually are. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 80-1) 135. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 12 February 1899), letter to Leon Vincent. Mania and Depression. […] The essays altogether, though light & discursive in style, seem to me at the same time to dip deeply into things – as it were unconsciously - & they start trains of thought that make one the better for having them started. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 213) 136. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), April 1899. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. When a person has gone, though his or her presence was not much desired, we regret the withdrawal of the grain of value in him, and overlook the mass of chaff that spoilt it. We realize that the essence of his personality was a human heart, though the form was uninviting. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 81-2)  	
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    137. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), July 1899. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. Though I am interested in the Society I feel it to be one which would naturally compose itself rather of writers on philosophy, science, and history, than of writers of imaginative works, whose effect depends largely on detachment. By belonging to a philosophic association imaginative writers place themselves in this difficulty, that they are misread as propagandist when they mean to be simply artistic and delineative. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 83) 138. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), April 1900. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. The confusion of thought to be observed in Wordsworth’s teaching in his essay in the Appendix to Lyrical Ballads seems to arise chiefly out of his use of the word ‘imagination.’ He should have put the matter somewhat like this: In works of passion and sentiment (not ‘imagination and sentiment’) the language of verse is the language of prose. In works of fancy (or imagination), ‘poetic diction’ (of the real kind) is proper, and even necessary. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 85) 139. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), July 1900. Mania and Morbidity. They were playing ‘puff and dart’ at Buckland Newton when a man accidently had his eye shot out. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 69) 140. Phelps, W. L. Autobiography with Letters, (9 September 1900). Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] We sat down on a bench in the open air. Although at this first interview he neither laughed nor smiled, he was, after the first moments, exceedingly gracious, kindly, and sympathetic. He was grave rather than sad. He spoke of the wickedness of shooting game birds, of killing any animals; ‘wickedness’ was the word he used. […] He said A Laodicean contained more of the facts of his own life than anything else he had ever written. He said he thought the novelist ought always to tell a story; that a novel should be constructed with a definite plot. He then asked me what I thought of his poetry; he had published his first volume of verse, Wessex Poems, only two years past, in 1898, with illustrations made fro his own drawings. I wish I had then liked the poems as I do now; I could not believe they stood so much higher than the novels in his own estimation, that they were so close to his heart. He was evidently pained when I told him that of course I found them interesting reading, but that I felt they were not so great as his works in prose. He spoke quite strongly about this. He thought they were far superior to any of his novels and that many of his more discerning friends had told him so. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 63-4)  	
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    141. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 October 1900), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. My dear friend: I remember that it is a year ago that we were in the excitement of sending off the army to the Cape. I spoke to some of the men at Southampton, who expected that they would be home in three months. Well, twelve have passed, & they have not yet returned. Have you heard from Col. Henniker lately, & are you expecting him soon? I should imagine that he must be nearly tired of the campaign by this time, & all of them. It is sad, or not, as you look at it, to think that 40, 000 will have found their rest there. Could we ask them if they wish to wake up again, would they say Yes, do you think? (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 269) 142. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 6 December 1900. Mania and Morbidity. Helen Catherine Holder died. Buried in the churchyard at Crofton Old Church, Lee-on-Solent. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 69) 143. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 February 1901), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. […] But I ought not to begin with ‘frivol’ – (the Right Reverend inventor of that dignified word has also passed away), since you may be unwell, or depressed on account of the tedious dreary length of the war: in which case I ask you to forgive me. That I should for one moment write anyway but gravely is a marvel, for I have been unwell & sad enough myself in the interval – feeling that I could not write a letter or do anything. I have felt much better – indeed quite well – during the last week. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 280) 144. Archer, W. “Untitled,” Pall Mall Magazine, (April 1901). Mania. […] W. A.: I fancy many of those letters remained written in your mind in sympathetic ink, only waiting for the heat of creation to bring them out. Mr. Hardy: Possibly, in a sub-conscious way. The human mind is a sort of palimpsest, I suppose; and it’s hard to say what records may not lurk in it. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 67) 145. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 April 1901), letter to Sir George Douglas. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] A gloom has been cast over us here since yesterday by the loss of a favourite cat, which was mutilated by the mail-train the night before last. The violent death of a dumb creature always makes me revile the contingencies of a world in which animals are in the best of cases pitiable for their limitations. As you have been rereading my books I shall ask you when I see you what you think of my opinion that ‘Her Death & After,’ & ‘The Dance at the Phoenix’ (both in Poems), are two as good stories as I have ever told? (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 282-3)  	
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    146. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), May 1901. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. My own interest lies largely in non-rationalistic subjects, since non-rationality seems, so far as one can perceive, to be the principle of the Universe. By which I do not mean foolishness, but rather a principle for which there is no exact name, lying at the indifference point between rationality and irrationality. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 90) 147. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Hyde Park, London: 16 May 1901), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] We have been saying how foolish it seems to have come away from where we were well, &, as you are now, surrounded by birds’ songs & young leaves, to make ourselves ill in a city! I hope to be screwed up to a higher note when I have been to Suffolk. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 287) 148. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Hyde Park, London: 2 June 1901), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] I spoke of you to Sir G. R. who was glad to be remembered by you. Altogether we had a cheerful time. A man home on sick leave from S. Africa came in to dine one evening, & he told us dreadful experiences of being compelled to drive his horse to death on the forced march, & of having to abandon others not quite dead. We are here till the 15th. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 288) 149. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 20 June 1901. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. I do not think that there will be any permanent revival of the old transcendental ideals; but I think there may gradually be developed an Idealism of Fancy; that is, an idealism in which fancy is no longer tricked out and made to masquerade as belief, but is frankly and honestly accepted as an imaginative solace in the lack of any substantial solace to be found in life. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 90) 150. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 8 July 1901. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. July 8. Pictures. My weakness has always been to prefer the large intention of an unskilful artist to the trivial intention of an accomplished one: in other words, I am more interested in the high ideas of a feeble executive than in the high execution of a feeble thinker. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 90-1) 151. Hardy, T. “Explanatory Note to the Wessex Edition,” Poems of the Past and Present, (August 1901). Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] As was said of Wessex Poems, of the subject-matter of this volume is much more dramatic or impersonative even where not explicitly so. And that portion which may be regarded as individual comprises a series of feeling and fancies written down in widely differing moods and circumstances, and at various dates; it will probably be found, therefore, to possess little cohesion of thought or  	
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   harmony of colouring. I do not greatly regret this. Unadjusted impressions have their value, and the road to a true philosophy of life seems to lie in humbly recording these diverse readings of its phenomena as they are faced upon us by chance and change. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 38-9)  152. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 September 1901), letter to Richard Garnett. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I sometimes wish I had not decided to publish the poems – one exposes one’s self to all sorts of arrows by printing anything written in hours of impulse. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Two, 298) 153. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 31 December 1901. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. After reading various philosophic systems, I have come to this: Let every man make a philosophy for himself out of his own experience. He will not be able to escape using terms and phraseology from earlier philosophers, but let him avoid adopting their theories if he values his own mental life. Let him remember the fate of Coleridge, and save years of labour by working out his own views as given him by his surroundings. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 91) 154. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 1 January 1902. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. A Pessimist’s apology. Pessimism (or rather what is called such) is, in brief, playing the sure game. You cannot lose at it; you may gain. It is the only view of life in which you can never be disappointed. Having reckoned what to do in the worst possible circumstances, when better arise, as they may, life becomes child’s play. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 91) 155. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 February 1902), letter to Clement Shorter. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Shorter, I do remember my faults this day & feel that I owe you infinite apology for not getting on with that story. It is, however, not that I have been doing other stories, but a physical inertness which has possessed me since the Poems came out. I do, nevertheless, hope to get it done. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 4-5) 156. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 27 February 1902), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. […] Well: what we gain by science is, after all, sadness, as the Preacher saith. The more we know of the laws & nature of the Universe the more ghastly a business we perceive it all to be - & the non-necessity of it. As some philosopher says, if nothing at all existed, it would be a completely natural thing; but that the world exists is a fact absolutely logicless & senseless. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 5)  	
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    157. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), March 1902. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Poetry. There is a latent music in the sincere utterance of deep emotion, however expressed, which fills the place of the actual word-music in rhythmic phraseology on thinner emotive subjects, or on subjects with next to none at all. And supposing a total poetic effect to be represented by a unit, its component fractions may be either, say: Emotion three-quarters, plus Expression on quarter, or – Emotion on quarter, plus Expression three-quarters. This suggested conception seems to me to be the only one which explains all cases, including those instances of verse that apparently infringe all rules, and yet bring unreasoned convictions that they are poetry. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 92) 158. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 1 May 1902. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. Life is what we make it as Whist is what we make it; but not as Chess is what we make it; which ranks higher as a purely intellectual game than either Whist or Life. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 96) 159. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 May 1902), letter to Arthur Symons. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] You hope I am working: I am, in a sense; but beyond a little poem of four stanzas which is coming out in the Monthly Review I have nothing printable. A growing sense that there is nobody to address, no public that knows, takes away my zest for production. The few who do know are submerged in the mass of imbecilities. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 21) 160. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 September 1902), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] I hope you are as well as can be in this sorry world. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 32) 161. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 28 November 1902), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression and Morbidity. […] A friend of ours has lately died at Florence, the daughter of Poet Barnes. Having known her in her early life I wrote a little obituary notice of her, which was in yesterday’s Times. She was a gentle & charming woman, & had lived in Florence between 30 & 40 years. I don’t think I have written you since my visit to Bath. I had a pleasant time there – as pleasant as could be in a place last visited to see those who are now dead. That unhappily is my case nearly everywhere now: those I used to find in houses I find in the churchyard. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 40) 162. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 December 1902), letter to Joose Van Der Poorten Schwartz. Affective Aesthetic Expression.  	
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   […] All my things of late have been ‘brevities’ (as the Americans say) in verse – produced with no regard to their effect or value, but because that form of expression seems to fit my thoughts better as I grow older, as it did when I was young also. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 43)  163. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 February 1903), letter to Lady Grove. Depression. […] But I am sending you melancholy and personal bulletins instead of something cheerful. It is a blessing that you have the living to think about, & their happiness to consider, & not too much available time for futile regrets […] I am not a Positivist, as you know. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 53) 164. Nevison, H. W. Changes and Chances, (May 1903). Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] He was quite silent at first, sitting sadly and taking no notice of the conversation […] As I expected, he spoke much about the hangman; also about the horrible scenes at public floggings on a wagon in the market-place, and how a cruel hangman would wait between each lash to let the flesh recover its feeling, while he squeezed blood off the thongs; and how some soldiers once saw this and forced the man to go quicker. Also how, before this time, little children used to be flogged through the streets behind a cart for stealing a penny book or toy. He had stories of magic as well; the woman who dreamt another woman sat on her chest and clawed her arm, and the other woman came next day to be healed of a terrible red mark on her arm, of which she ultimately died. He wrote a story on it for Leslie Stephen, who, however, insisted upon having a material explanation. I thought I remembered it in ‘Wessex Tales,’ but am not sure. He spoke also of the custom still surviving that the man who kills a pig cuts out a nice little piece and eats it raw. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 76-7) 165. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 September 1903), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] For my part, the world is so greatly out of joint that the question of vivisection looms rather small beside the general cruelty of man to the ‘lower’ animals. I hear them complaining in the railway trucks sometimes, & think what an unfortunate result it was that our race acquired the upper hand, & not a more kindly one, in the development of species. If, say, lions had, they wd have been less cruel by this time. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 74) 166. Archer, W. Real Conversations, (1904). Mania, Depression and Morbidity. W.A. Now tell me, as to rural superstitions belief in witchcraft, and so forth – are they dying out? Mr. Hardy. On the surface, yes; in reality, no. People smile and say, ‘Of course we don’t believe in these things’ – but their scepticism is only skin deep. You will find women to this day who will make an image of some enemy and either melt it before the fire or stick pins into it. The belief in the evil eye subsists in full  	
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   force; also such ideas as that which I have introduced into one of my stories – that if you can draw blood form a witch, you render her powerless. I am most anxious to believe in what, roughly speaking, we may call the supernatural – but I find no evidence for it! People accuse me of scepticism, materialism, and so forth; but if the accusation is just at all, it is quite against my will. For instance, I seriously assure you that I would give ten years of my life – well, perhaps that offer is rather beyond means – but when I was a younger man, I would cheerfully have given ten years of my life to see a ghost – an authentic, indubitable spectre. W.A. And you have never seen one? Mr. Hardy. Never the ghost of a ghost. Yet I should think I am cut out by nature for a ghost-seer. My nerves vibrate very readily; people say I am almost morbidly imaginative; my will to believe is perfect. If ever a ghost wanted to manifest himself, I am the very man he should apply to. But no – the spirits don’t seem to see it! W.A. Yet you live in a graveyard, too, don’t you? Mr. Hardy. A Roman graveyard – yes. We decapitated a row of five Roman soldiers or colonists in moving the earth to make the drive there. […] W.A. And the pessimist holds, I take it, that the principle of evil is the stronger. Mr. Hardy. No. I should not put it precisely in that way. For instance, people call me a pessimist; and if it is pessimism to think, with Sophocles, that ‘not to have been born is best,’ then I do not reject the designation. I never could understand why the word ‘pessimism’ should be such a red tag to many worthy people; and I believe, indeed, that a good deal of the robustious, swaggering optimism of recent literature is at bottom cowardly and insincere. I do not see that we are likely to improve the world by asseverating, however loudly, that black is white, or at least that black is but a necessary contrast and foil, without which white would be white no longer. That is mere juggling with a metaphor. But my pessimism, if pessimism it be, does not involve the assumption that the world is going to the dogs, and that Ahriman is winning all along the line. On the contrary, my practical philosophy is distinctly meliorist […] Whatever may be the inherent good or evil of life, it is certain that men make it much worse than it need be. When we have got rid of a thousand remediable ills, it will be time enough to determine whether the ill that is irremediable outweighs the good. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 68-70)  167. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 March 1904), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression and Morbidity. […] You speak of Meredith. I am sorry to learn that he has been so seriously ill. Leslie Stephen is gone, too! They are thinning out ahead of us. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 117) 168. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 22 March 1904. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. I did not quite think that The Dynasts would suit your scientific mind, or shall I say the scientific side of your mind, so that I am much pleased to hear that  	
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   you have got pleasure out of it […] On my return here from London I had a sudden feeling that I should never carry the thing any further, so off it went. But now I am better inclined to go on with it. Though I rather wish I had kept back the parts till the whole could be launched, as I first intended. What you say about the ‘Will’ is true enough, if you take the word in its ordinary sense. But in the lack of another word to express precisely what is meant, a secondary sense has gradually arisen, that of effort exercised in a reflex or unconscious manner. Another word would have been better if one could have had it, though ‘Power’ would not do, as power can be suspended or withheld, and the forces of Nature cannot: However, there are inconsistencies in the Phantoms, no doubt. But that was a point to which I was somewhat indifferent, since they are not supposed to be more than the best human intelligences of their time in a sort of quint-essential form. I speak of the ‘Years.’ The ‘Pities’ are, of course, merely Humanity, with all its weaknesses. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 104-5)  169. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 10 April 1904), letter to Blanche Crackanthorpe. Depression. Dear Mrs. Crackanthorpe: I am so sorry to say that I am both by nature & circumstance unequal to the interesting task you propose – too far outside ‘the swim’ to be able to do it. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 135) 170. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 September 1904), letter to Arthur Symons. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I have, however, of late years, lapsed so deeply into my early weakness for verse, & have found the condensed expression that it affords so much more consonant to my natural way of thinking & feeling that I have almost forgotten the prose effusions for the time. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 133) 171. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 26 February 1905), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania. My dear friend, I am quite sorry to be unable to be in London this coming week. Several things prevent it – among others I have been feeling a little out of sorts – . (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 159) 172. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 5 April 1905), letter to J. L. Garvin. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Sir: It is very cheering that you think well of that little poem, & kind of you to write & tell me so. My personal opinion of it as simply a blank – the incident (which occurred to me years ago) having had a pathos in itself which has prevented my discerning if I conveyed that pathos in the lines. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 166)  	
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    173. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 November 1905), letter to Edmund. Mania and Depression. […] Why people make the mistake of supposing pessimists, or what are called such, incurably melancholy, I do not know. The very fact of their having touched bottom gives them a substantial cheerfulness in the consciousness that they have nothing to lose. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 187) 174. Nevison, H. W. More Changes, More Chances, (1906). Mania and Morbidity. […] On an old plan of Dorchester, Hardy also pointed me out the hardly distinguishable spot where the gallows were marked. The subjects have for him a horrible fascination that comes of extreme sensitiveness to other people’s pain. I suppose that if we all had that intensity of imagination we should never do harm to any human being or animal or bird, certainly not in cruelty. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 79) 175. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), February 1906. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. […] To-day it was early Wagner for the most part: fine music, but not so particularly his – no spectacle of the inside of a brain at work like the inside of a hive. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 117) 176. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 March 1906), letter to Arthur Symons. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Your theory that verse should be confined to emotional expression is one that I used to hold, & was very uncomfortable under. (I believe that a good many hold it now besides yourself). What settled it for me was a superimposed theory, or view; viz, the theory of contiguity, if I may use such a word for it: by which I mean that unemotional writing which has no claim of itself to verse-form may properly be attracted into verse-form by its nearness to emotional verse in the same piece. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 199) 177. Nevison, H. W. More Changes, More Chances, (26 April 1906). Mania and Morbidity. Afterwards we went to a Lyons teashop, at which he was a little alarmed, being used only to an A.B.C., and unfortunately, as we came out, he caught sight of a broadsheet announcing, ‘Family Murdered with a Penknife.’ He couldn’t get over that. The vision of the penknife seemed to fascinate him. But we parted most amiably. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 77-8) 178. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Hyde Park, London: 10 May 1906), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. My dear Clodd: I am sincerely sorry that this influenza has happened at this moment to prevent my going out. It came on suddenly last night, & I am a prisoner for some  	
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   days, as I always get it in its most violent form. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 205)  179. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 May 1906), letter to J. McT. E. McTaggart. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Sir, Quite by chance I took up from the table here a day or two ago your recent work ‘Some Dogmas of Religion’ (to which I was attracted by seeing on its back a name I have been familiar with in the pages of ‘Mind,’ etc.) and I think I ought to write and tell you what a very great pleasure the reading of the book has given me, though this is a thing I very seldom do. The clearness, acuteness and vigour of the thinking throughout, its entire freedom from sophisms and the indubitable moral good to be derived from a perusal of it are cheering to others whose minds have run more or less in the same groove but have rather despaired of seeing harmful conventions shaken – in this country at least – by lucid argument and, what is more, human emotions. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 207) 180. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 12 October 1906), letter to Frederic Harrison. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] In going from article to article I am struck with the exceptional manysidedness of your active mind: indeed I don’t know anybody else who at all rivals you in that respect. In most of what you say & feel I am quite with you […] The fact is that when you get to the bottom of things you find no bed-rock of righteousness to rest on – nature is unmoral - & our puny efforts are those of people who try to keep their leaky house dry by wiping off the waterdrops from their ceiling. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 236) 181. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 December 1906), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression and Morbidity. ‘Manducemus, et bibamus; cras enim moriemur.’ Cor. 15.32. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 241) 182. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 December 1906), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] I wish I had something I could send you, but I am a prisoner in the house – having in fact got up to breakfast this morning for the first time for several days. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 243) 183. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Hyde Park, London: Summer 1907), letter to Violet Hunt. Depression. Dear Miss Hunt: I could not come. I had a toothache, for one thing; & I am too gloomy for garden parties. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 257)  	
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    184. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 2 June 1907. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] In a dramatic epic – which I may perhaps assume The Dynasts to be – some philosophy of life was necessary, and I went on using that which I had denoted in my previous volumes of verse (and to some extent prose) as being a generalized form of what the thinking world had gradually come to adopt, myself included. That the Unconscious Will of the Universe is growing aware of Itself I believe I may claim as my own idea solely – at which I arrived by reflecting that what has already taken place in a fraction of the whole (i.e. so much of the world as has become conscious) is likely to take place in the mass; and there being no Will outside the mass – that is, the Universe – the whole Will becomes conscious thereby: and ultimately, it is to be hoped, sympathetic. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 124-5) 185. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 July 1907), letter to H. W. Massingham. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] It is curious that a track once lost in this way is never regained; but, as human emotion cannot be damned up indefinitely, the checked tendency in prose may, as I said, approximately be resumed in verse; so ‘somehow good may be the future goal of ill.’ But don’t think that I am altogether optimistic thereon. Anyhow, the statements one sees in the papers on the taste for poetry being dead is the absurdist among the many absurd conclusions reached by young critics of our time. What has always been a part of human nature will remain a part of it as long as human nature remains. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 258) 186. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 August 1907), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. […] I am not really in such breezy spirits as a gossipy letter would seem to imply, & go along rather mechanically with the day’s duties. I have just had a letter from Dorothy Allhusen, who is at Royat-les-Bains doing a cure. She is not very strong. Nobody is, it seems to me nowadays – at any rate, nobody whom I come into contact with, though I gather from the newspapers that there are athletes in the world somewhere. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 267) 187. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 November 1907), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] These are only a few jottings of what occurs to me as I read. Well, your life is a very bright one now – exceptionally bright, to my thinking. I, alas, have been mentally travelling in regions of inspissated gloom – not that I am habitually gloomy, as you can testify. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 282) 188. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 April 1908), letter to Clement Shorter. Mania.  	
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   […] I think the photo must be returned – as I fear that T.H. will not like it added to his affairs. He has an obsession that I must be kept out of them lest the dimmest ray should alight upon me of his supreme story – ‘This to please his family,’ chiefly. He is like no other man – nor himself as ‘was.’ (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 38)  189. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 May 1908), letter to Catharine and Rebekah Owen. Mania. […] My eminent partner will have a softening of brain if he goes on as he does & the rest of the world does -! (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 42) 190. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 18 August 1908. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression August 18. The Poet takes note of nothing that he cannot feel emotively. If all hearts were open and all desires known – as they would be if people showed their souls – how many gapings, sighings, clenched fists, knotted brows, broad grins, and red eyes should we see in the market-place. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 133) 191. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 September 1908), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Mania. […] You must mind not to be too friendly with strangers, as you don’t know who’s who in a town through which the worst (& no doubt best) of the earth pass on their way out of our country when it gets too hot for them. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 334) 192. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 9 October 1908), letter to Emma Lavinia Hardy. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] It is very dismal here, & if you come back I do not think you will stay long. However, it will be a great relief to get these jobs done, as they have been upon my mind so long. The servants are very quiet, & attentive about the cats. A woman in Dorchester has murdered her baby. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 344) 193. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 November 1908), letter to Rhoda Symons. Depression and Morbidity. […] You seem to have been told that his [Arthur Symons] state is quite hopeless. But I wonder if it is really so. He is not old, & I have supposed hitherto that the only hopeless cases are when the patient is getting on in years. Also I have supposed that the disease comes on very gradually when it is going to be permanent, yet I gather that this has come quite suddenly; so that I cannot quite understand as yet there can be no hope for him. However, all that is hidden is the breast of Time. You will not misunderstand my meaning if I say that, assuming it to be certain that he cannot recover, a rapid release would be preferable to a slow one. Death in itself is nothing to be feared: it is the steps to it that make us wince. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Three, 352)  	
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    194. Syrett, N. The Sheltering Tree, (1909). Depression. […] It was a slight little man with a flesh-coloured, rather sad face who was introduced to me. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 86) 195. St. Helier, L. Memories of Fifty Years, (1909). Mania. […] He was shy and retiring, and the adulation and interest which he awakened was a cause of annoyance instead of being any pleasure to him. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 24) 196. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 11 March 1909), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Clodd: I am sorry I shall not be able to be in London for dinner – so kind of you to invite me (as you are in so many other ways) – And in respect of my sending something about FitzGerald to be read at the table I feel quite unable to. The raw east wind has reduced my mind no less than my body to a sterile greyness, out of which not a single thought will sprout. To-day, for instance, I have been idling about when I might have done so many good things. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 13) 197. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 13 April 1909. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. A genius for repartee is a gift for saying what a wise man thinks only. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 104-5) 198. Hunt, V. The Flurried Years, (2-5 July 1909). Mania and Morbidity. […] Thomas Hardy told ghost stories, just as a Wiltshire peasant might, sitting in the inglenook of an old inn in Shaftesbury with a hand on each knee. He told the story of the Collingwood caul that someone, knowing his culte for Nelson, presented to him. It is the skinny membrane found on the heads of some babies at birth and preserved by the nurse for luck. That of Nelson’s friend, so preserved, Mr. Hardy put on a shelf over his bed, where he could touch it. In the night he heard it moving…shifting…His zest for the macabre was not proof against traditional terrors inculcated at his mother’s knee. He returned the caul to the family. In his soft, low, yet clear, wistful tones, he related his one perennial dream. ‘I am pursued, and I am rising like an angel up into heaven, out of the hands of my earthly pursuers.’ With a small deprecating laugh, ‘I am agitated and hampered, as I suppose as an angel would not be, by – a paucity of underlinen.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 88-9) 199. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 July 1909), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] I came down here Saturday evening – very much depressed with London, &, alas, with life generally – which I should not be particularly sorry to take my leave of. Yet I suppose I ought to have felt lively last week, for, as you may have  	
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   seen in the papers, Tess was produced as an opera at Covent Garden, with such success as (so the management tell me) they have not had for years. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 35)  200. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 July 1909), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. My dear Clodd: I left London last Saturday, & have not been in the best of health & spirits since, though I am rapidly picking up. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 35) 201. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), August 1909. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Depression. We call our age an age of Freedom. Yet Freedom, under her incubus of armaments, territorial ambitions smugly disguised as patriotism, superstitions, conventions of every sort, is of such stunted proportions in this her so-called time, that the human race is likely to be extinct before Freedom arrives at maturity. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 139) 202. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 August 1909), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania. […] My appetite has been increased by the Aldeburgh air to an alarming degree, from a housekeeping point of view; &, I think, strength too. So you see how much I owe you. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 43) 203. Hardy, T. “Explanatory Note to the Wessex Edition,” Time’s Laughingstocks and Other Verses, (September 1909). Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Now that the miscellany is brought together, some lack of concord in pieces written at widely severed dates, and in contrasting moods and circumstances, will be obvious enough. This I cannot help, but the sense of disconnection, particularly in respect of those lyrics penned in the first person, will be immaterial when it is borne in mind that they are to be regarded, in the main, as dramatic monologues by different characters. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 43) 204. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 September 1909), letter to Edith Graham. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Mrs. Graham: Will you accept the book I send herewith, as a memento of my visit, as it is about the sea-shore, though not the East coast. I am sorry that it is rather sad, but perhaps it may have features that will appeal to you. Remember, I was much younger when I wrote it than I am now. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 43-4) 205. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 28 November 1909), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression.  	
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   […] I retail such as this to you, but I am not in the brightest of spirits, to tell the truth. Still, who can expect to be at my age, with no children to be interested in. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 61)  206. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 12 December 1909), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Gosse: Just a line to say how much I appreciate your letter about ‘Time’s Laughingstocks.’ That the verses should seem to be preponderantly sad is not quite what I intended: it comes by chance. I fancied that, bulk for bulk, there would be as many of a cheerful or neutral pattern as of a deeper shade. But possibly gloom is more telling than brightness – in my effusions at least – so that a great deal of the latter is required to counteract a little of the former. Or if not this, there is another consideration. Some writers of verse are instinctively vocal in sadness & silent in joy, just as others are vocal in joy & silent in sadness. Hence what they produce gives only a half-picture of their minds. Anyhow this will be a good subject for us to discuss when we meet. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 65) 207. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 1910. Mania and Morbidity. King Edward died in May. O.M. conferred in July by Kind George. Colonel the Hon. M. C. Legge writes… ‘The Order of Merit ranks after the G.C.B. and before the G.C.M.G, but gives no precedence.’ What does this mean? (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 74) 208. Maugham, S. “Preface,” Cakes and Ale, (1910). Mania and Depression. […] As my note suggests, I had been struck by the notion that the veneration to which an author full of years and honour is exposed must be irksome and to the little alert soul within him that is alive still to the adventures of his fancy. Many odd and disconcerting ideas must cross his mind, I thought, while he maintains the dignified exterior that his admirers demand of him […] In his evening clothes, with his boiled shirt and high collar, he had still a strange look of the soil. He was amiable and mild. It struck me at the time that there was in him a curious mixture of shyness and self-assurance. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 90) 209. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 February 1910), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] I should have been in London, & have called on you on some dark mysterious Sunday night or other, but I have had to lie by with a chill, bad throat, &c. -, which was very depressing. I think I am going away for a few days change this week. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 75)  	
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    210. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 18 April 1910), letter to Lady Grove. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I do not at all see why you should not go on writing if you like doing it. That is everything, for upon the whole there is rather more distinction in not writing than in writing in these times, & I sometimes wish I had never penned a line. A very good test rule is, would you rather lose money & opportunities by writing than gain them by not writing? If you can honestly say yes, I think you are called by nature to do it. I remember testing myself by that query when I stood at the parting of the ways. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 83-4) 211. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 April 1910), letter to Lady Hoar. Mania. […] I am ensconcing myself in the Study in his big chair foraging – he keeps me out usually – as never formerly – as well! I have my private opinion of men in general & of him in particular – grand brains – much ‘power’ – but too often, lacking in judgment of ordinary matters – opposed to unselfishness – as regards themselves! – utterly useless & dangerous as magistrates! & such offices - & to be put up with until a new order of the universe arrives, (IT WILL). (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 48) 212. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Maida Vale, London: 5 June 1910), letter to Lord Curzon. Mania and Depression. My dear Lord Curzon, How very much I value your kind remembrance of me on my birthday. To what you say about getting old I may add that people of 70 seem much younger to me now-a-days than they did when I was a child – though, as I have confessed to some other friends, to be candid I think I felt rather more exhilarated by the birthday that was expressed by the 7 without the 0 than by that expressed with it; for I never can forget that, ‘Time is as wind, & as waves are we,’ - as my friend Swinburne wrote so aptly and beautifully. I hope that inevitable wind is not blowing too severely on you – as indeed I think it cannot be from what I see & read of your constant activities in so many spheres. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 93) 213. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Bloomfield Court, London: 5 June 1910), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania. My dear Gosse: I am so glad I got your letter – not only for the very kind things you say, & hopeful ideas you put into my head, but because I am relieved to hear that you have got back from Italy safe & well. Fancy, you left during the late reign, & find the history-book open at a new page, with a new figure at the top, on your return. Not that there really is or can be any break of continuity; but I speak in the terms of childhood, & of a lesson-book in which a picture of the king and his sceptre was prefixed to each accession. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 93)  	
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    214. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Bloomfield Court, London: 11 July 1910), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. […] Yes: I have thought much of your faithful visitations, which really did more than anything else to lighten the gloom of that tedious week or two. I shall always be grateful for them. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 104) 215. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 September 1910), letter to Sir Robert Pearce Edgcumbe. Mania. My dear Edgcumbe: Accept my warm thanks for your kind congratulations. Not the least pleasure I have had in this incident has lain in the discovery of the unexpectedly large battalion of friends I posses, both at home & in the uttermost parts of the earth. If you feel getting to be one of the old fogey brigade, what must I feel! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 115) 216. Hardy, Emma Lavinia, (River Front, Enfield: 8 November 1910), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania, Depression, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I am going back to Max Gate on Monday for a week or two. Mr. T. H. has been in the depths of despair at the death of a pet cat. ‘Providence’ he wrote, ‘has dealt me an entirely gratuitous & unlooked for blow.’ But his last letter shows that he is very pleasurably excited over the forthcoming play: ‘Mellstock Choir’ & he is also finding a melancholy pleasure in writing an appropriate inscription for ‘Kitsey’s’ headstone, so that Providence has not done all the harm it intended, this time. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 65) 217. Hardy, Florence, (River Front, Enfield: 11 November 1910), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. […] I shall be delighted to spend that week-end at Aldeburgh – but I am very much afraid that Mr. T.H. will refuse to stir from Max Gate. He seems quite planted there for the winter. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 66) 218. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 19 November 1910), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I went to Mr. Hardy’s study yesterday & found him working at a pathetic little poem describing the melancholy burial of the white cat. I looked over his shoulder & read this line: ‘That little white cat was his only friend.’ That was too much for even my sweet temper, & I ramped round the study exclaiming: ‘This is hideous ingratitude.’ But the culprit seemed highly delighted with himself, & said, smilingly, that he was not exactly writing about himself but about some imaginary man in a similar situation. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 68) 219. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 December 1910), letter to Clement Shorter. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Shorter:  	
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   On receiving the request for a Coronation ode, or poem of that nature more or less, with which you have honoured me, I felt quite incompetent for the job; & up to now I feel just the same. Of course I don’t know what may come into my head between now & then, but I cannot promise such an article. In any case my production would not be of the joyful character that people would deem suitable for the occasion. So here I must leave it for the present. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 134)  220. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 January 1911), letter to John Acland. Mania. Dear Captain Acland: I imagine that what happened in respect of ‘The Bow’ was this: that when the house called by that name (which seems to be shown in the old map published in the Municipal records) was pulled down, & the market house preceding the present one was built about 1791, the expression became gradually used for the curved wall. Or the name may have originated from the curve, & so have been applied to the house. However, the thing more on my mind just now is this: could not the name ‘Twelve-Men Way’ be revived? (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 135-6) 221. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 26 April 1911), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania. […] However, I never had a more cheerful time at Aldeburgh. The air, material & spiritual, was wonderful; & really your hospitality is beyond thanks. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 150) 222. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 June 1911), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. My dear Gosse: Your letter throws a cheerful light over rather a gloomy time, for that cold left me in a state of physical prostration that I have hardly yet to get over, though I have nearly. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 157) 223. Hardy, T. “General Preface to the Novels and Poems,” (October 1911). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] And there is another consideration. Differing natures find their tongue in the presence of differing spectacles. Some natures become vocal at tragedy, some are made vocal by comedy, and it seems to me that whichever of these aspects of life a writer’s instinct for expression the more readily responds, to that he should allow it to respond. That before a contrasting side of things he remains undemonstrative need not be assumed to mean that he remains unperceiving. It was my hope to add to these volumes of verse as many more as would make a fairly comprehensive cycle of the whole. I had wished that those in dramatic, ballad, and narrative form should include most of the cardinal situations  	
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   which occur in social and public life, and those in lyric form a round of emotional experiences of some completeness. But The petty done, the undone vast! The more written the more seems to remain to be written; and the night cometh. I realize that these hopes and plans, except possibly to the extent of a volume or two, must remain unfulfilled. (Thomas Hardy’s Personal Writings, 49-50)  224. Newbolt, H. The Later Life and Years of Sir Henry Newbolt, (2 June 1911). Mania. […] His manner was courteous but not easy – he seemed to have some anxious perplexity upon his mind: as if he too was playing a game and was doubtful of the rules. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 100) 225. Hardy, Florence, (River Front, Enfield: 11 December 1911), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] Mr. T.H., his sister & I had a pleasant little trip last week to Bath, Gloucester & Bristol. He is very well, & seemed quite gay. Mrs. Henniker told me yesterday that she had never known him in better spirits than when she was in Dorset, so his passing moods of depression do not signify much perhaps […] PS – I forgot to enclose this. On re-reading it through I do not think it so good as I did at first. This morning I hear from Mr. T.H. that he is ‘most miserable,’ so I do not know what has happened. However, I shall see him on Friday. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 73-4) 226. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 December 1911), letter to John Meade Falkner. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] To make what you say true about pessimists – that a convinced pessimist could not feel any desire for literary activity, you must assume that he reckons by consequences & works for results. But there is such a thing as creative efforts in prose or verse becoming, or being innately, an irresistible propensity – such as smoking, drinking, gambling, etc., which is indulged for the pleasure of the indulgence itself. And the worst pessimist goes on writing with such an idiosyncrasy. However, this is enough about myself. […] ‘Time’s Laughingstocks’ is, as you will have perceived after honouring me by reading it so carefully, a very mixed collection of utterances – written in all sorts of moods & circumstances, & at widely differing dates. I am glad that the volume appealed to you. Upon the whole I supposed from what people say that it contains a larger proportion of my best work – or at any rate characteristic work – than any other book I have published. […] I am pleased to hear that Nature appeals to you more & more. I fancy, though I am not sure, that I have lost some of my zest for it under the sense of the apparent undesireableness of the universe. True, its existence may not really be undesirable, but we can only judge with our means for judging. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Seven, 153-4)  	
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    227. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 1 June 1912. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. Newbolt wasted on the nearly empty room the best speech he ever made in his life, and Yeats wasted a very good one: mine in returning thanks was as usual a bad one, and the audience was quite properly limited. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 152) 228. Anonymous. English Illustrated Magazine, (June 1912). Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] The picture he presented was, for the moment at least, all-satisfying; there was more than nervousness in the strangely harassed-looking face, with the most sensitive features that I had ever seen. The deep-set eyes were troubled, but there was no mistaking their fearless courage. I knew that I was looking at a man whose soul was more ravaged than even his careworn features were with the riddle of life and the tragedy of it, and yet a soul utterly self-reliant, for all the shyness of the outward man […] We were on better terms in a moment, as Mr. Hardy replied, his voice curiously halting, but not as if he was in any doubt of his sentiments. It seemed a mixture of irony and diffidence. ‘You are a young man,’ he said. ‘The cruelty of fate becomes apparent to people as they grow older. At first one may perhaps escape contact with it, but if one lives long enough one realizes that happiness is very ephemeral.’ ‘But is not optimism a useful and sane philosophy?’ I asked him. ‘There’s too much sham optimism, humbugging and even cruel optimism!’ Mr. Hardy retorted. ‘Sham optimism is really a more heartless doctrine to preach than even an exaggerated pessimism – the latter leaves one at least on the safe side. There’s too much sentiment in most fiction. It is necessary for somebody to write a little mercilessly, although, of course, it’s painful to have to do it […] ‘Love is tragic,’ he said, ‘but it is very beautiful.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 101-2) 229. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 June 1912), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. My dear Gosse: You will gather what heathen darkness I live in from my telling you that I did not know of your recent honour till this moment, when I see your portrait in one of the illustrated papers. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 220) 230. Gosse, E. “Visit to Max Gate on 5 September 1912.” Mania and Depression. […] His eyes are smaller than ever, drawn with fatigue down deeper in between the thin pencilled eyelids. The hair was almost wholly worn away from the forehead, the moustache, once yellowish red, has faded into pallor, it is like the sparse whiskers of some ancient rodent, a worn-out squirrel for instance. The almond shape of the head, rapidly arching above, and as rapidly arching to the small, almost pointed chin, is more pronounced than ever. The thin lips tremble a little, not from age so much as from an excess of introspection. One would say that under that cover of extensive leafage, he had grown pallid and bloodless […]  	
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   And he seemed far away. We stayed two hours and a half. He was much brightened up by our visit, one could see that. His eyes were not wide open, a little red on his cheeks, the skin less puckered and parchment-like, as he waved farewell to use from the doorstep […] He remains, what he has always been, a sphinx-like little man, unrelated, unrevealed, displaying nothing that the most affectionate solicitude can make use of to explain the mystery of his magnificent genius. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 108-9)  231. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 October 1912), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Clodd: Yes: the weather is very lovely; but I fear I shall not be able to accept your ready hospitality again until after this year. Proofs are still passing mechanically through my consciousness as through a mill (not that I touch them, except for obvious errors), & I have already given myself so many brief holidays during their progress & afterwards had to scramble to be up to time that I will not be tempted, eve by Aldeburgh & your personality, till I have finished the edition. I wish I could annihilate half the volumes, but that, alas, I cannot do. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 229) 232. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 December 1912), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. My dear Clodd: I would have written sooner to acknowledge your prompt letter of sympathy with me in my loss, but I could not. I feel the greatest difficulty in writing or doing anything. Yes: what you say is true. One forgets all the recent years & differences, & the mind goes back to the early times when each was much to the other – in her case & mine intensely much. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 239) 233. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 December 1912), letter to Frederic Harrison. Depression. My dear Harrison: Just an inadequate word of thanks to you & Mrs. Harrison for your sympathetic words. In my case there was no chronic illness (or apparently none) to lead me to expect a termination of her life at this date: I imagined her quite sound, even robust. Perhaps I ought to have had more insight. But it is easy to be wise after the event. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 243) 234. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 December 1912), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] I have reproached myself for not having guessed there might be some internal mischief at work, instead of blindly supposing her robust & sound & likely to live to quite old age. In spite of the differences between us, which it would be affectation to deny, & certain painful delusions she suffered from at times, my life is intensely sad to me now without her. The saddest moments of all  	
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   are when I go into the garden & to that long straight walk at the top that you know, where she used to walk every evening just before dusk, the cat trotting faithfully behind her; & at times when I almost expect to see her as usual coming in from the flower-beds with a little trowel in her hand. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 243)  235. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 December 1912), letter to Alfred Parsons. Depression. My dear Parsons: My sincerest thanks to you for your kind words, which I value as coming from such an old friend of mine - & also of hers. The blankness & silence is very great to me now. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 245) 236. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 December 1912), letter to Sir George Douglas. Mania. My dear Douglas: My sincerest thanks to you for your sympathetic words. I am glad to recall that though your meetings with my wife were often separated by long intervals of time, you knew her over a considerable number of years – indeed, almost as long as anybody now left among our friends. Thanks also for your inquiry as to myself. I really now am quite well, though my loss was so sudden that it came as a shock. I had no expectation of it. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 245) 237. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 16 January 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] I am going home on Tuesday next. Mr. Hardy looks very well & seems cheerful. Indeed his youngest sister tells me that he has regained the same happy laugh that he had when he was a young man. But, all the same, his life here is lonely beyond words, & he spends his evenings in reading & re-reading voluminous diaries that Mrs. H. kept from the time of their marriage. Nothing could be worse for him. He reads the comments upon himself – bitter denunciations, beginning about 1891 & continuing until within a day or two of her death - & I think he will end by believing them. I would give almost anything for you to be able to run in & see him. It is a thousand pities that Max Gate is so far from his mental companions. There is no mental kinship here at all, & he has no visitors & goes nowhere, except with me to Stinsford Churchyard, & to see his sisters & brothers at Talbothays - & of course they talk of ‘Emma.’ The tragedy of twenty years is not ended yet […] P.S. Reading this over I wonder whether I have exaggerated Mr. Hardy’s loneliness. Of course nothing could be more lonely than the life he used to lead – long evenings spent alone in his study, insult & abuse his only environment. It sounds cruel to write like that, & in atrocious taste, but truth is truth, after all. F. D. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 756)  	
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    238. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 January 1913), letter to Lady Ilchester. Mania and Depression. […] It was so unexpected that even now I sometimes think for a moment that it cannot have happened, & that she may come in from the garden saying that the snowdrops & crocuses are peeping up. But the monotonous duties of life insist on being attended to, & so the mind gets diverted from broodings. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 254-5) 239. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 January 1913), letter to Florence Dugale. Mania and Depression. […] I felt very sad & lonely yesterday; not quite so much today. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 255) 240. Hardy, Florence, (River Front, Enfield: 30 January 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] Mr. H. is, at present, extremely sensitive & says that if I am seen walking about in Dorchester with him, or even if it is known that I am staying at Max Gate, they will comment unpleasantly. He said that, after a year had passed, they would take no notice. However that may be, that is really all I meant when I wrote. […] Mr. Hardy seems more afraid of his [Clement Shorter’s] curiosity than anything & when letters come from him asking all sorts of questions Mr. H. becomes nearly frantic. […] His inscription on Mrs. Hardy’s wreath was ‘From her lonely husband, with old affection.’ I must say that the good lady’s virtues are beginning to weigh heavily on my shoulders […] In today’s letter he says: - ‘I am getting through E’s papers’ … & speaking of her abuse of him – ‘It was, of course, sheer hallucination in her, poor thing, & not willfulness.’ I feel as I am hardly able to keep back my true opinion much longer. I shall go down about the middle of next week & suppose I shall be there some time, for he ends his letter, ‘If once you get here again won’t I clutch you tight: you shall stay till spring. I felt very sad & lonely yesterday: not quite so much today.’ I ought not to write all this I know but it is a most tremendous relief to do so, & I know you won’t ever breathe a word to anyone. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 76-7) 241. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 7 March 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] I daresay you have been wondering how T. H. is, & I thought you might like a line to tell you. He has been extremely well in health, & quite cheerful, although there have been domestic worries – no servant for a fortnight, & so forth. But now we have two excellent maids & all seems to promise well. On Thursday he started for Plymouth to find the grave of Mrs. H.’s father (that amiable gentleman who wrote to him as ‘a low-born churl who has presumed to marry into my family.’) Today he goes to Cornwall, to St. Juliot’s Rectory, where he first met his ‘late, espousèd Saint,’ forty-three years ago, this very week. However, as his youngest sister sensibly observes, ‘so long as he doesn’t pick up another  	
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   Gifford down there, no harm will be done’ […] Fortunately I have no anxiety concerning T. H.’s health – he seems more vigorous & well than I have known him for some years. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 78-9)  242. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 April 1913), letter to Lady St. Helier. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] All the pleasure I now get - & it is very little – is derived from excursions & visits, & if I have to give all these up I don’t know that life will be worth much. However, it may not come to this, & I am in excellent general health – never better. To add to that complication, this house is turned upside down with workmen whitening & papering, & I am living almost in one room. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 265-6) 243. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 20 April 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania. […] You will be glad to know that he seems in most excellent spirits, & has said to me once or twice, with the zest of a school-boy ‘I do feel I like the idea of going to see Clodd at Aldeburgh. I am quite up to it – now’ […] The remarkable change in his spirits has seemed to coincide with the departure of Mrs. Hardy’s niece. There were several breezes – all about household matters - & she went off – saying it upset her to be here with painting going on, & now Mr. H. tells me he has written to tell her she is not to come back at all, but he will pay her a salary all the same, & he has bought her an annuity. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 80-1) 244. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 5 June 1913), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] My visit to Southwold was a very quiet one, as at that time my leg had been painful, so that I passed the days mainly in sitting still. It is rather a sad reminder of mortality – I mean the place is – crumbling into the sea everywhere. I met a cousin of Meredith’s there. I don’t know what to think about Barrie Baronet for though he will be as good as any, I had understood that honours were against his principles. However he can plead, as the girl who had the baby did, that he ‘is only a very little one.’ Our atmosphere here is crimson just now with murder cases, as you will have seen from the papers. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 278) 245. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 June 1913), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania. […] I wish I had seen Henry James. I am sorry to hear of his angina pectoris – which is rather serious, is it not? Though I just recalled that a lady who had it 25 years ago, & used to blow herself up with gunpowder (is it g.p. they use?) in the prescribed manner, is still living & hearty. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 281)  	
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    246. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 29 June 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] I wish we could have accepted Mr. Shorter’s invitation, but I think it would have been rather too much for Mr. Hardy. He & I went to lunch with the Admiral of the First Battle Squadron on board the St. Vincent on Saturday last - & although there was very little exertion - & we enjoyed ourselves most tremendously – yet he has seemed very fatigued ever since […] Mr. & Mrs. Cockerell & Mr. Strang were so very good in steering him away from ‘St. Juliot’ & ‘Beeny Cliff,’ that he forgot to lament, & was in excellent spirits afterwards. He has had cart-loads of sympathy (mostly insincere) - & I cannot see that anyone – dead or alive – is better off for him being miserable […] I am a little worried now about this constant ‘tiredness’ of Mr. Hardy’s. He seems knocked up by the least exertion, & as for trotting around to Cathedrals etc – as he did a year ago, that seems out of the question. However you will be able to tell me what you think when you have been here a little while. Mr. Strang thought he looked much better – that his face had lost some of the lines it used to have – but the fact remains that he went for one short walk with them, while they were here - & that tired him. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 82-3) 247. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 July 1913), letter to George Dewar. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] It is very strange that you should have been attracted by ‘A Pair of Blue Eyes.’ The character of the heroine is somewhat – indeed, rather largely – that of my late wife, & the background of the tale the place where she lived. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 288) 248. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 21 August 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] T. H., I am glad to say, is in good health, & wonderfully cheerful. He has had no fit of depression for quite a long time […] Really he is wonderfully well & in unusually high spirits. Mr. John Lane, who came down a week or two ago & paid a flying visit said he had not seen him look so well & so bright, for years. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 83-4) 249. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 15 September 1913. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. September 15. Thoughts on the recent school of novel-writers. They forgot in their insistence on life, and nothing but life, in a plain slice, that a story must be worth the telling, that a good deal of life is not worth any such thing, and that they must not occupy a reader’s time with what he can get at first hand anywhere around him. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 158) 250. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 October 1913), letter to Sir James Murray. Mania, Depression and Morbidity.  	
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   […] Yes, it was a great pleasure to meet last June. I propose being again in Cambridge at the end of this week for a day or two. My friends, too, drop around me, & render my life more & more lonely. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 313)  251. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 November 1913), letter to Frederic Harrison. Mania. […] As for your not being a literary man, I must argue that out with you when I see you. As the cabman said, ‘I wish I had half your complaint’ of literary negativeness. (This frivolity is, I suppose one of the appalling results of my cold in the head). I agree that the times have a strange & disturbing colour just now. I have always said that if wrong ideas & wrong doings had been withdrawn from the so-called civilized world’s mind & actions gradually in the past century, catastrophes might have been avoided in its future history. But these things have been persistently bolstered up – are bolstered up every day that dawns, & they must come down ‘with a run’ soon. I do not however suspect quite so strongly as you do that we two shall be here to see it. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 319) 252. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 November 1913), letter to Lady Ilchester. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Lady Ilchester: I am so glad to learn that you like to have the book. You will realize that all the stories were written many years ago, & that I have republished them rather by compulsion than choice (some having been pirated in America). So you will find them younger in method & sentiment than I could make them if I were to write them now. Some of them however are pleasantly creepy for reading on these dark evenings. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Four, 323) 253. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 3 December 1913), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Morbidity. […] Things are going on pretty much the same. I dreaded the anniversary of Mrs. Hardy’s death, but T. H. took it very, very quietly, and seemed his normal self: if anything a little more cheerful than I thought. We made a pilgrimage to the grave carrying flowers, wearing black, and so forth. After wearing colours for some months I suddenly had to go back into black – buying all new black things. In fact I am still in mourning, but really since it is more than I would have done, even for a beloved parent or sister, I think I can break out into colours again soon. Mr. Hardy, though, suggested that I should always wear half mourning in future, as a mark of devotion to her memory. Sometimes I wonder if there is not something in the air of Max Gate that makes us all a little crazy. Upon the whole I think that T. H. is more cheerful than I have ever known him to be, but at times he gets upset at trifles, and gives way almost alarmingly. And there is always this extraordinary idealization of Mrs. Hardy – whom now he says, and I think believes, was the sweetest, most gifted, most beautiful woman who ever existed. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 86)  	
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    254. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 1 January 1914), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] Mr. Hardy seems very well. We had a quiet Christmas – the only excitement being a visit to the grave on Christmas Eve - & another yesterday. Katie Hardy who saw us there yesterday said she never saw two such dismal ‘critters’ in her life, as ‘Tom’ & myself. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 91-2) 255. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 January 1914), letter to Benjamin De Casseres. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I am glad to hear that your hands are full of work, since your mind is, no doubt, full of ideas. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 5) 256. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 January 1914), letter to Florence Dugale. Depression. […] Of course if you are unwell I will put up with my solitude, as you must not run any risk […] I live almost entirely in the study, & the house is very solitary. But I keep well – missing you however, every minute. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 7) 257. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 16 February 1914), letter to Revd. J. H. Dickinson. Depression and Morbidity. […] Indeed one of the satisfactions of my present position is that my wife was a great friend of my late wife, so that there is no rupture of continuity in my life, which always seems an added sadness in a world that at the best is so transitory & full of severances. If ever ghosts revisit old scenes I am sure mine will haunt St. Juliot by reason of the experiences I was there blest with before my first marriage, & long before the sadness came that was a result of the slight mental aberration which occasionally afflicted my wife’s latter years. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 15-16) 258. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 February 1914), letter to Frederic Harrison. Mania and Depression. […] That the union of two rather melancholy temperaments may result in cheerfulness, as the junction of two negatives forms a positive, is our modest hope. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 16) 259. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 2 March 1914), letter to A. C. Benson. Mania and Depression. […] Yes: events seem to prove that I have made a happy choice […] And so far from the jocundity & forgetfulness of the past, which are conventionally assumed by the lighthearted to accompany such a marriage, being present in our case, we have taken the step soberly, & even gravely. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 18)  	
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    260. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Pall Mall, London: 13 March 1914), letter to May Hankey. Mania and Morbidity. […] Human slaughtering has been adopted in so many towns that it is time Blandford took it up. Dorchester butchers, I believe, have done so for a long while, & I hope the cause will be advanced by the meeting. The conveyance & driving of animals to the slaughter-houses, & their treatment whilst waiting for slaughter, is of little less importance than the actual killing. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 20) 261. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 March 1914), letter to W. M. Colles. Mania. Dear Mr. Colles: I have not written a prose story, long or short, since the last century, nor is there any likelihood of my writing one, though I have written many in verse. Your client’s mistake has probably arisen from my having been lately compelled by pirates to reprint some old tales that I would have willingly let die. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 22) 262. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), June 1914. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. […] He assumes throughout the great worth intrinsically of human masterfulness. The universe is to him a perfect machine which only requires thorough handling to work wonders. He forgets that the universe is an imperfect machine, and that to do good with an ill-working instrument requires endless adjustments and compromises. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 160) 263. Glasgow, E. The Impenetrable Wall, (June 1914). Mania. […] His face was small and worn to sharpness, but the skin was singularly clear, with a tinge of red of the cheekbones; and in both his expression and his manner there was a quality of wistfulness, as if he wished to be kind, but was not quite sure he was going about it the right way […] In our philosophy of life we soon touched a sympathetic chord; for he told me that he also had suffered all his life over the inarticulate agony of the animal world. ‘I have often wondered,’ he added, with that wistful smile, ‘whether I’d choose the lot of a wild or a domestic animal; and I think, all things considered, I’d choose the lot of the wild.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 112) 264. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 11 June 1914), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] Altogether the world is such a bungled institution from a humane point of view that a grief more or less hardly counts. Wishing one had never come into it or shared in its degrading organizations is but a selfish thought, as others would have been here just the same. But this sounds gloomy to you I know; & I am after all not without hope of much amelioration. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 30)  	
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    265. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 28 June 1914), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] I have a watery eye, owing to sitting by an open window. I am also exercised on what to do with some poems. When I am dead & gone I shall be glad – if I can be anything – for them to have been printed, & yet I don’t quite like to print them. My wife sends her love to Mrs. Gosse. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 35) 266. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 17 July 1914), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear friend: As you are kind enough to write about that little poem called ‘Before & After Summer’ I remember to tell you that I am collecting the pieces in verse that I have written since the last volume of poetry was published & looking them over with a view of bringing them out somewhere towards the end of the year. Some of them I rather shrink from printing – those I wrote just after Emma died, when I looked back at her as she had originally been, & when I felt miserable lest I had not treated her considerately in her latter life. However I shall publish them as the only amends I can make, if it were so. The remainder of the book, & by far the greater part of it, will be poems mostly dramatic and personative – many of which have been printed in magazines, &c. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 37-8) 267. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 28 August 1914), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] As for myself, the recognition that we are living in a more brutal age than that, say, of Elizabeth, or of the chivalry which would cry: ‘Gentlemen of the Guard, fire first!’ (far more brutal indeed: no chivalry now!) does not inspire one to write hopeful poetry, or even conjectural prose, but simply make one sit still in apathy, & watch the clock spinning backwards, with a mild wonder if, when it gets back to the Dark Ages, & the sack of Rome, it will ever move forward again to a new Renaissance, & a new literature. But people would call this pessimistic so I will stop – having inflicted on you a much longer letter than I intended. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 45) 268. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 5 September 1914), letter to Rebekah Owen. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] My husband was called hurriedly to Town on Wednesday – on war business. But he, dear heart, is not able to do much. The horror of this is making a great change in him – I can see. To me he seems ten years older. The thought of it all obsessed him. That is why, I think, he writes no poem about it. He cannot write about the things he feels most deeply. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 100) 269. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 September 1914), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression.  	
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   […] Two days ago we were motoring in a district near here that used to be absolutely secluded, & we came upon ‘Kitchener’s army’ of recruits in camp. Some thousands marched past us on their way back from bathing in Lulworth Cove. They were in large part young miners from the north. When will this ghastly business come to an end! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 50)  270. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 November 1914), letter to Kate Gifford. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Miss Gifford: I am sending you my new volume of poems – not because I think you will care for a large number of them, but because it contains some that relate to Emma. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 64) 271. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 December 1914), letter to Edmund Gosse. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] And so few of the critical trade recognize what you know well – a poem expresses a mood that sometimes ends with the very writing of it, & not a scientific conviction. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 66) 272. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 1 December 1914), letter to Rebekah Owen. Mania. […] Of course – were my husband less nervous & any visitors – old & dear friends included – I should love – absolutely love you to come here to stay for a long, long time. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 102) 273. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 6 December 1914), letter to Lady Hoare. Depression, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] But I must confess to you - & I would confess this to no one else – that book pains me horribly, & yet I read it with a terrible fascination. It seems to me that I am an utter failure if my husband can publish such a sad sad book. He tells me that he has written no despondent poem for the last eighteen months, & yet I cannot get rid of the feeling that the man who wrote some of those poems is utterly weary of life - & cares for nothing in this world. If I had been a different sort of woman, & better fitted to be his wife – would he, I wonder, have published that volume? (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 104) 274. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 9 December 1914), letter to Lady Hoare. Mania and Depression. […] Oddly enough, as if to show me how right & just your letter was, he has been bright & cheerful the last day or so. And of course I do know he has a tender protective affection for me – as a father for a child – as he has always had – a feeling quite apart from passion. And I feel towards him, sometimes, as a mother towards a child with whom things have somehow gone wrong – a child who needs comforting – to be treated gently & with all the love possible […] Your promised visit sheds a sort of sunshine over all the days here. He is looking forward to it  	
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   ever so much. I suggested – rather to tease him than of serious intent – that we should invite some friends to lunch to meet you. His face fell. ‘O, that won’t be the same thing at all,’ he said dolefully. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 105)  275. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 December 1914), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania, Depression, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] At first I thought I would not send any copy to any friend owing to the harsh contrasts which the accidents of my life during the past few years had forced into the poems, & which I could not remove, so many of them having been printed in periodicals – those in fact that I liked the least. And unfortunately they are the ones the papers have taken most notice of. My own favourites, that include all those in memory of Emma, have been mentioned little. The one to Florence was written when she was a mere acquaintance: I think she likes it. I am so glad that you like, ‘When I set out for Lyonnesse.’ It is exactly what happened 44 years ago. […] Gosse’s poem was one of the few good ones that has been brought out by the war. At night here the sky is illuminated by the searchlights in Portland Roads, so we are kept in mind of the slaughter in progress. Mr. Asquith went to The Dynasts one afternoon & liked it much. I hope you keep well and will have a cheerful Christmas. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 70-1) 276. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 December 1914), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Depression. My dear Cockerell, I am writing just this line to wish you & Mrs. Cockerell a happy New Year & to thank you for remembering us at Christmas. I cannot say that there is the cheeriness in my wish that there (I suppose) ought to be, for really I do not recollect the end of any year which has been so full of uncertainty & gloom. To look forward to February, as we have hints to do, as the time when fighting will be renewed on a large scale, is not exhilarating. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 73) 277. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 2 February 1915), letter to Caleb Saleeby. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. His theories are much pleasanter than those they contest, and I for one would gladly believe them; but I cannot help feeling all the time that his is rather an imaginative and poetical mind than a reasoner’s, and that for his charming and attractive assertions he does not adduce any proofs whatever. His use of the word ‘creation’ seems to me loose and vague […] Personally, I feel rather disheartened when I think it probable that the War will end by the sheer exhaustion of the combatants, & that things will be left much as they were before. But I hope not […] You must not think me a hard-headed rationalist for all this. Half my time – particularly when writing verse – I ‘believe’ (in the modern sense of the word) not  	
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   only in the things Bergson believes in, but in spectres, mysterious voices, intuitions, omens, dreams, haunted places, etc., etc. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 78)  278. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 March 1915), letter to Florence Henniker. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I, too, like you, think the Germans happy & contented as a people: but the group of oligarchs & munition-makers whose interest is war, have stirred them up to their purposes – at least so it seems. I have expressed the thought in a sonnet that is coming out in the Fortnightly. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 86) 279. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 10 May 1915), letter to Harold Child. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Lea’s book, though not literary, is the only one that includes the poems in its survey, & is very accurate. It is also correct on points in ‘A Pair of Blue Eyes,’ which have a melancholy interest for me now. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 95) 280. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 May 1915), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression. […] I have to be in London for one day a little later on; not for longer, thank Heaven, for I dislike being there more & more, especially with the incessant evidences of this ghastly war under ones eyes everywhere in the streets, & no power to do anything. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 99) 281. Phillpotts, E. From the Angle of 88, (10 June 1915). Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] He spoke of Cornwall and the days when, as a young architect, he had gone to work at the fane of St. Juliot nigh Boscastle, to supervise its restoration and enter upon the supreme adventure of his own young life. There he had met his fate and lost his heart; and now, half a century later, those days of bygone happiness could still warm his soul and bring a glimmer of contentment through the grey ambience of old age. Not seldom those gleams of recollection are to be found in his later poems, when memories of a girl he loved and won seem to twinkle, like a steadfast lighthouse beam, over the storm-foundered nights that were destined to follow […] He felt an uncommon regard for animals and revealed a strange understanding of his pets, for his imagination enabled him to see life from their point of view and, more or less, to understand what was passing in their little minds. He was never sentimental about them, but always sympathetic and concerned to read their emotions. Cruelty to animals awakened his sharpest indignation and he held that the average farmer’s treatment of sheepdogs was to be deplored and lacking in either gratitude or humanity. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 120)  	
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    282. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 20 June 1915), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania and Depression. […] My husband is very well indeed. I try to tempt him into the open air as much as possible & we have had several little trips lately in Mr. Hermann Lea’s motorcar which he as thoroughly enjoyed - & I think he has been much better for them. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 104) 283. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 9 August 1915), letter to Nelson Richardson. Depression. […] The war takes away from me all enterprise, for visiting as for other things. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 118) 284. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 14 August 1915), letter to Edith Wharton. Depression. […] The war casts such a shade over everything. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 119) 285. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 August 1915), letter to John Galsworthy. Depression. […] The look of things in Europe is not cheering, so far as I can see, to an impartial eye. – At least to mine Germany seems slowly attaining her object of mastering the rest of us. But in England one must not look things in the face: yet my experience has been that nothing leads to success like doing so. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 119) 286. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 September 1915), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] We were much distressed two days ago by a telegram which has come through from the War Office, telling us that the most promising relative I had in the world had been killed in action on Aug 22, in Gallipoli. His mother is a widow, & how she is going to bear it I don’t know. She has two other sons, but they are both in the trenches in France, & may, of course, not get through safely. However, it is not such absolute massacre there, so far as I can judge, as it is in the Dardanelles. He was 2d Lieut. F. W. George, Dorset Regt & you may see perhaps a biographical note about him in the Times. Heaven only knows where & how his body lies, & the particulars of his death. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 120) 287. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 2 September 1915), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] We were much distressed on Monday morning by this brief telegram: ‘Frank was killed on the 22nd.’ This referred to a very dear cousin of mine, Frank George, 2d Lieut. in the 5th Dorsets who had fallen in the Gallipoli peninsula – almost the only, if not the only, blood relative of the next generation in whom I have taken any interest. The death of a ‘cousin’ does not seem a very harrowing matter as a rule, but he was  	
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   such an intimate friend here, & Florence & I both were so attached to him, that his loss will affect our lives largely. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 121)  288. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 September 1915), letter to Eden Phillpotts. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. Dear Mr. Phillpotts: My best thanks for your note, & your kind sympathy & Mrs. Phillpotts’s. He was so much more to us than a cousin, & the most promising member of my family. I wish he were not lying mangled in that shambles of the Gallipoli Peninsula, where we ought never to have gone. However, nothing can touch him further. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 122) 289. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 September 1915), letter to Clement Shorter. Mania and Morbidity. […] When he told us he was going to that shambles Gallipoli we thought he was doomed. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 122) 290. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 3 December 1915), letter to Rebekah Owen. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] Tom is wonderfully calm and composed. I think he felt that her [Mary Hardy] death was a release from pain to her and hence not to be much lamented – but of course he was fond of her […] Tom – to my great dismay – says he feels that he never wants to go anywhere or to see anyone again. He wants to live on here, quite quietly, shut up in his study. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 110-11) 291. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 5 December 1915), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Depression. […] We send kindest remembrances. It is a gloomy time, in which the world having like a spider climbed to a certain height, seems slipping back to where it was long ago. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 135) 292. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 19 January 1916), letter to Hamo Thornycroft. Depression. […] How gloomy the times are. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 142) 293. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 January 1916), letter to H. O. Lock. Depression. Dear Captain Lock: It is very kind of you to write all the way from India & let me know that you sympathize with me in the loss of my elder sister. Many thanks for your letter. I remember when you underwent the same sad experience as I have lately gone through, & you will know very well that nobody else in the world can quite  	
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   fill the same place in one’s life as a sister about one’s own age. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 142)  294. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 3 March 1916), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania and Depression. […] My husband is very well now, & most cheerful, but he stays upstairs in his study & we have meals there. He has not been downstairs since Monday. But this, I imagine, does him no harm as the weather is so cold & trying. I have, for a long time, tried to persuade him to wear a skull-cap & a night-cap. I suggested that a year ago, but he says that he has known certain men who have worn skullcaps & he has always disliked those particular men. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 114-5) 295. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 March 1916), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] I wish we could drop in! Those Sunday evenings were indeed pleasant. But like the man in the Toccata of Galuppi’s: ‘I feel chilly & grown old.’ (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 149) 296. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 March 1916), letter to John Galsworthy. Depression and Morbidity. […] That there seems no ultimate reason for existence, if not a staggering idea, does make most of us feel that, if there could be a reason, life would be far more interesting than it is. The mystery of consciousness having appeared in the world when apparently it would have done much better by keeping away is one of the many involved in the whole business. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 153) 297. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 23 April 1916), letter to Caleb Williams Saleeby. Mania and Depression. […] So far as we can judge here the war news of the moment seems rather bad. We had a very depressing letter this morning from a friend who professes to have special information. My husband fortunately keeps a very calm mind about the whole. At the beginning he faced the worst possibilities of the war and since then, I think, has not been unduly cast down. […] My husband – one bright spot in the general gloom – is now very well I am glad to say. We stay at home and live very quietly – there is no extravagance here, unless it be of language when we discuss newspapers and politics. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 117) 298. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 June 1916), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. […] The war is, as you say truly, an accursed thing. It affects us all down to the smallest detail of existence, & its shadow will be upon us for half a century after its end – if it ever ends. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 163)  	
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    299. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 28 June 1916), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania. […] We had a mild excitement last week – the Wessex Scenes from the Dynasts having been performed by the Dorchester players at the Weymouth theatre. The house was crammed – many wounded men & officers being present - & the money raised for the Red Cross & Russian wounded – was a substantial sum. Of course the interest to us lay not in the artistic effect of the play – which was really rather a patchwork affair – but in the humours of the characters whom we knew in private life as matter-of-fact shopkeepers & clerks. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 166) 300. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 June 1916), letter to Pat à Beckett. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Major à Beckett: I find that I am quite unable to write anything special on the subject of the Dorset men in Kut – having in fact, become squeezed dry by this time by the many demands upon my pen for such contributions, - at a date, too, when I have not the productive power I had formerly. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 168) 301. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), September 1916. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. At the German prisoners’ camp, including the hospital, operating-room, etc., were many sufferers. One Prussian, in much pain, died whilst I was with him – to my great relief, and his own. Men lie helpless here from wounds: in the hospital a hundred yards off other men, English, lie helpless from wounds – each scene of suffering caused by the other! (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 173) 302. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 September 1916), letter to Hamo Thornycroft. Mania and Morbidity. […] PS – it is rather amusing to see that the public are cautioned against putting up extravagant memorials to departed soldiers & others (if anything can be amusing at this time). Sculptors please copy. T. H. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 176) 303. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 September 1916), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression and Morbidity. […] We propose, D.V., to go to Cornwall for 3 or 4 days this week, starting I believe Thursday. The memories it will revive will of course be rather sad ones for me, but I want to see the tablet that has been erected in St. Juliot Church, near Boscastle, to Emma, recording that she lived there, played in church, laid the foundation stone of the new part, &c […] The war news is exciting almost every day: but I think our papers rather too sanguine. We have not beaten the Germans by any means yet. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 176-7)  	
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    304. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 9 September 1916), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania and Depression. […] My husband looks much better for this short holiday – although once or twice he has been rather tired. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 114-5) 305. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 October 1916), letter to John Galsworthy. Depression and Morbidity. […] I don’t feel very hopeful about such things, & as I get older fall back upon the reflection that there is but one life for each individual & that happily it will soon be over. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 182) 306. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 October 1916), letter to Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] And as to any other kind of writing interesting me (than novels) I sometimes wonder if it is not beneath the dignity of literature to attempt to please longer a world which is capable of such atrocities as these days have brought, & think that it ought to hold its peace forever. But they bring out heroism, though at what expense! I am really glad to hear that your son is showing himself such a fine young fellow. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 183) 307. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 November 1916), letter to J. H. Morgan. Mania and Morbidity. […] Many thanks for the copy of Land & Water containing your article that gives such graphic descriptions of the Front – the dead man peering into the distance is particularly striking. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 187) 308. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 24 November 1916), letter to Thomas Humphry Ward. Depression. […] I hope you and Mrs. Ward are not getting much depressed by the apparent remoteness of peace. I must admit that we are, though I suppose one must not say so openly. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 187) 309. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 December 1916), letter to Sir Henry Newbolt. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] If the war were over, how much less of misgiving & sadness those pages would convey with the literary pleasure they give. I fear there is no end to this strife – by no end I mean no settlement. We shall simply go on till we leave off from exhaustion – Germany unconquered, the Allies unassured, & both sides sullenly picking up the pieces & mending them as well as they can for another smash some day. But I may be all wrong, & most likely am, for I really have no clear facts to go upon. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 189) 310. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 December 1916), letter to Edmund Gosse. Depression. My dear Gosse:  	
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   Of course, if the slightest good is likely to be done by putting down my name as before, please do so, though my working powers will be nil. You will quite understand why it is that I shall be such a dead-head, for I am getting on in years, & far away. I have not been to London this year – an unprecedented thing for one who was once half a Londoner […] I am not in the best of spirits about the issue of the war; & a book my wife has been reading to me does not help me – Sir Oliver Lodge’s Raymond. Poor dear amiable man […] I hope Mrs. Gosse is well, & we send her best Christmas wishes – if it not too dangerously near satire to send such messages in these ferocious times. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 190-1)  311. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 December 1916), letter to Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. Depression. […] I hope it will not seem too obvious a satire to wish you & yours the best that Christmas can bring. I fear it will not be much that is cheering. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 194) 312. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 1 January 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. January 1, 1917. Am scarcely conscious of New Year’s Day. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 174) 313. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 6 January 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. January 6. I find I wrote in 1888 that ‘Art is concerned with seemings only,’ which is true. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 174) 314. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 January 1917), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I am sorry to hear that Masefield has been aged by war-experiences. Yet a man of deep feeling like him could not avoid it after coming in contact with the tragic scenes in France. It is grievous to think too that his writing of verse will probably be hindered for a time. I wish he would write more in his early style. What a trouble you are taking with the Selected Poems. Please don’t be too generous with them. I really don’t deserve it […] Tell Q. when you see him that I feel for him under the depression of the influenza. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 199) 315. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), March 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Like so many critics, Mr. Courtney treats my works of art as if they were a scientific system of philosophy, although I have repeatedly stated in prefaces and elsewhere that the views in them are seemings, provisional impressions only, used for artistic purposes because they represent approximately the impressions of the age, and are plausible, till somebody produces better theories of the universe. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 175)  	
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    316. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 March 1917), letter to Florence Henniker. Depression and Morbidity. […] We are living uneventful lives here (if the news of the war events are not reckoned) feeling no enterprise for going about & seeing people while the issue of the great conflict is in the balance - & I fear that by the time the issue is reached I shall be too far on to old age to care to do so. The actual reminder in this house that the struggle is going on is that I have some German prisoners at work in the garden, cutting down some trees, & clearing the ground for more potato-room. They are amiable young fellows, & it does fill one with indignation that thousands of such are led to slaughter by the ambitions of Courts & Dynasties. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 204) 317. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 11 March 1917), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression. […] Best thanks for inquiries. We have been fairly free from colds (except for a small one I caught). We go nowhere, however, except in the immediate neighbourhood, the war cloud & the railway difficulties keeping us at home. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 207) 318. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 18 May 1917), letter to Siegfried Sassoon. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I don’t know how I should stand the suspense of this evil time if it were not for the sustaining power of poetry. May the war be over soon. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 213) 319. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 May 1917), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania, Depression, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] The war has taken all enterprise out of me (I should add that it is partly because of the practical difficulties of getting about), & I have almost registered a vow that I will not see London till the butchery is over. Another of my cousins has been killed, & though his mother is but a distant cousin I sympathize deeply sympathize with her, as she herself is dying. People are in strangely irritable moods I fancy. I said very harmlessly in a poem (sonnet) entitled ‘The Pity of It’ that the Germans were a ‘kin folk, kin tongued’ (which is indisputable) & letters attacking me appeared, denying it! The fact that their being our enemies does not alter their race. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 214-5) 320. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 16 June 1917), letter to Clement Shorter. Depression and Morbidity. […] I made a vow when I last got back from London that I would not go again until after the war, the sight of the old place in such circumstances having been so sad […] I am tired of birthdays (death-days are more interesting); & am glad you did not write. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 218)  	
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    321. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 September 1917), letter to John Galsworthy. Mania. […] I was surprised (not disagreeably) to find that it was a story of modern artificial life that was covered by the rather misty title of a book whose author hailed from Dartmoor! and I had not known that you could handle that sort of life with such familiarity. As to your bringing on the catastrophe by cutting the knot and killing off the lover by an inconsequent accident – well, I will say I have two minds upon it. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 226-7) 322. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), October 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. I hold that the mission of poetry is to record impressions, not convictions. Wordsworth in his later writings fell into the error of recording the latter. So also did Tennyson, and so do many other poets when they grow old. Absit omen! I fear I have always been considered the Dark Horse of contemporary English Literature. I was quick to bloom, late to ripen. I believe it would be said by people who knew me well that I have a faculty (possibly not uncommon) for burying an emotion in my heart or brain for forty years, and exhuming it at the end of that time as fresh as when interred. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 178) 323. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 October 1917), letter to Thomas Humphry Ward. Depression and Morbidity. […] I hope your book will not be unduly delayed by the war, so wearing as it is. We are sorry to hear of the loss of your nephew, but almost everybody is hit somewhere. I have lost two cousins, one killed in Gallipoli, the other on the West front. To-day’s news of the German advance in Russia is disheartening. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 230) 324. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Plymouth: 21 October 1917), letter to Sir Henry Newbolt. Depression. […] When I am down here I always wish I was a Devon man – as you are, I believe? I have many romantic & (now) sad reasons for my interest in the county, which I need not particularize. Dorset, however, touches Devon, & I suppose I must not complain. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 230) 325. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), November 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. I do not expect much notice will be taken of these poems: they mortify the human sense of self-importance by showing, or suggesting, that human beings are of no matter or appreciable value in this nonchalant universe. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 179)  	
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    326. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 13 November 1917. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania. November 13. I was a child till I was 16; a youth till I was 25; a young man till I was 40 or 50. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 179) 327. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 November 1917), letter to Frederick Macmillan. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. My dear Macmillan: The book came this morning, & looks very well in spite of wars and tumults – or perhaps in consequence, as it is rather in keeping with them. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 232) 328. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 November 1917), letter to William Stebbing. Mania and Depression. My dear Stebbing: Your kind thought of me in sending the book of Translations has already given me & will give me more half-hours of pleasure in its reading. The two fine minds, too – happen to be those which arrested me in times past perhaps more than any others of ‘the Ancients’ – Virgil affectionately, Lucretius deferentially. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 232) 329. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 25 November 1917), letter to J.M. Bulloch. Mania and Morbidity. […] The machine-made horrors of the present war make one’s blood run cold rather than warm as a rule. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 233) 330. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 11 December 1917), letter to Edmund Gosse. Mania and Depression. […] We have been well. I hope you & yours continue so, so as to be able to sustain the apparent reversal of our hopes in the war. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 234) 331. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 26 December 1917), letter to Sir Henry and Lady Hoare. Depression and Morbidity. […] It is no use to offer consolation. And not even Time may be able to give that – I mean real consolation. Once a wound, always a scar left, it seems to me. Though Time can & does enlarge our vision to perceive that the one who has gone has the best of it - & that we who are left are made to look rather poor creatures by comparison with the one who has got safely to the other side – has achieved Death triumphantly & can say: ‘Not steel nor poison – foreign levy – nothing can touch me further.’ […] Florence has been crying over her remembrance of climbing the tower with Harry. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 235)  	
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    332. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 27 December 1917), letter to S.M. Ellis. Depression. […] Many thanks for good wishes, which we reciprocate for the coming year, though at present the outlook is gloomy. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 236) 333. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 December 1917), letter to Henry Newbolt. Depression. [….] Wishing you as happy a new year as one can hope for in these times. I don’t know that I have ever parted from an old year with less reluctance than from this. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 238-9) 334. Massingham, H. J. Remembrance: An Autobiography, (1918) p. 45. Mania and Depression. […] ‘A head slightly cocked on one side, like a bird’s. And with looking like a country doctor, old style, with humour in the mouth and tragedy in the eyes.’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 122) 335. Mardon, Jessica Vera. “Thomas Hardy as a Musician,” Monographs on the Life, Times and Works of Thomas Hardy, (1918). Mania. […] Hardy never enthused or got excited and yet I know from at least two personal experiences, which I prefer not to relate, that he could get very irate and show it by his facial expression, angry words and sarcasm; but even in anger he did not raise his voice. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 124) 336. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 January 1918), letter to Sydney John Galsworthy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] The same post that brought your letter brought also a bundle of reviews of my poems from the publishers. I suppose English critics will always work on the old lines, and try to get behind the book to quiz the author – regarding his book as a deep-laid scheme of his, analyzing the possible motives, his reason for publishing it at this particular moment, etc., etc., instead of seeing that he is almost irresponsible, that it is the result of haphazard circumstances, and that the writer rubs his eyes and wonders how this and that got into his pages as much as the reviewer does. We are frozen up here – I don’t mean water-pipes, because we have hardly any, but I mean fingers and nerves. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 241) 337. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 January 1918), letter to Clement Shorter. Depression. […] I write immediately on seeing the sad intelligence. I am very very sorry, & can say no more, little as that is. I offer no consolation; there may be some, but I do not know it. If one has much feeling - & you have that I know – such a blow is heavy to bear. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 242)  	
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    338. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 January 1918), letter to Siegfried Sassoon. Mania. […] We have read out loud the poems you mention, & liked them. Perhaps R. Nichols brings off his intention best in ‘To –,’ & ‘Fulfilment.’ But it is impossible to select, after all. That photograph! – We divined it to be you, but I was not certain, till a friend told us positively only a day before your letter came. It has been standing in my writing room calmly overlooking a hopeless chaos of scribbler’s litter. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 242) 339. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 16 January 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. […] As to pessimism. My motto is, first correctly diagnose the complaint – in this case human ills – and ascertain the cause: then set about finding a remedy if one exists. The motto or practice of the optimists is: Blind the eyes to the real malady, and use empirical panaceas to suppress the symptoms. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 183) 340. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 24 January 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. January 24. It is the unwilling mind that stultifies the contemporary criticism of poetry. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 184) 341. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 25 January 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. January 25. The reviewer so often supposes that where Art is not visible it is unknown to the poet under criticism. Why does he not think of the art of concealing art? There is a good reason why. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 184) 342. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 30 January 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. January 30. English writers who endeavour to appraise poets, and discriminate the sheep from the goats, are apt to consider that all true poets must be of one pattern in their lives and developments. But the glory of poetry lies in its largeness, admitting among its creators men of infinite variety. They must all be impractical in the conduct of their affairs; nay they must almost, like Shelley or Marlowe, be drowned or done to death, or like Keats, die of consumption. They forgot that in the ancient world no such necessity was recognized; that Homer sang as a blind old man, that Aeschylus wrote his best up to his death at nearly seventy, that the best of Sophocles appeared between his fifty-fifth and ninetieth years, that Euripides wrote up to seventy. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 184) 343. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), February 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression.  	
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   A sense of the truth of poetry, of its supreme place in literature, had awakened itself in me. At the risk of ruining all my worldly prospects I dabbled in it…was forced out of it…It came back upon me…All was of the nature of being led by a mood, without foresight, or regard to whither it led. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 185)  344. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 February 1918), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression and Morbidity. […] Why I have not brought it – I would never have asked for a loan of it – is that life is so short – the remainder of mine at any rate –. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 247) 345. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 2 February 1918), letter to George Douglas. Depression. My dear Douglas: Yes: I suppose it must be a year or more since we hailed each other across the counties, & a great deal has happened during the sad enough interval. I don’t know that I can claim to be hopeful about the War, unless on the grounds that peace is better at any price than the struggle that has been going on these three years & more, for I fancy fighting will stop, somehow, not long hence, by the sheer force of world-weariness. Whether it will be ‘a German peace’ or not events only can show. I sincerely hope not, for that will only mean new wars in the not very distant future. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 247-8) 346. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 February 1918), letter to Florence Henniker. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I gave very few copies of the poems to friends, as I thought they might not like them. As you have bought the book I am not responsible if they trouble you. I begin to think I shall never present any more of my own poems to anybody. I myself (naturally I supposed) like those best which are literally true – such as ‘At Lanviet,’ – ‘At the word Farewell,’ – ‘Why did I sketch’ &c, &c, which perhaps are quite unattractive to readers, & may have little literary merit. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 250) 347. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 February 1918), letter to Edmund Gosse. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I am puzzled about the date of ‘The Widow,’ (or as it is called in the Wessex Edn. ‘The Widow Betrothed’). Anyhow, though I thought of it about 1867 when looking at the house described, which is near here, it must have been written after I had read Wordsworth’s famous preface to Lyrical Ballads, which influenced me much, & influences the style of the poem, as you can see for yourself. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 253) 348. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 24 February 1918), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania and Depression.  	
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   […] We feel very depressed about the war – although of course T. H. is wonderful – with that inner radiance of his: a true sun-shine giver. But, from the very beginning of the war, neither of us has ever expected that we should defeat Germany. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 140)  349. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 5 March 1918), letter to John Drinkwater. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Mr. Drinkwater: (Please pardon my being compelled to dictate my letters nowadays). I am much obliged to you for writing and sending your very generous review of Moments of Vision in the Manchester Guardian – a newspaper I highly value. You make me feel that, after all, it was worth while to bring out the poems, a point on which I had considerable doubt this time last year. As to their comparative value, i.e., the comparative value of those in this volume, it is one of those questions on which a writer’s own opinion is worthless, and in thinking I have discovered the reason to be that he judges from his affection for the incident or feeling that gave rise to the poem, while the reviewer judges, as he cannot help doing, from the presentation of it to him in the pages of the book. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 258) 350. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), May (end) 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. I agree with Tennyson, who said he could form no idea how Shakespeare came to write his plays. My opinion is that a poet should express the emotion of all the ages and the thought of his own. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 188) 351. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 2 June 1918), letter to Edward Clodd. Depression and Morbidity. […] One may fear that the world will see many more war-anniversaries than I shall see birthdays. I ought to be able to prophesy that this year will see the end of the strife, but I confess I have no ground for venturing such a prophesy, so I wont. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 265) 352. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 June 1918), letter to Frederic Harrison. Depression and Morbidity. […] I must be getting rusty, I suppose, for I think we have retrograded in civilization since those times: such isolated cruelties were, after all, not so fiendish as the cold scientific slaughter of hundreds of thousands that we see going on now. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 270) 353. O’Rourke, M. “Thomas Hardy: His Secretary Remembers,” Monographs on the Life, Times and Works of Thomas Hardy no. 8, (July 1918). Mania. […] He looked at me, and face and voice had changed completely: ‘It is Stoke Poges!’ he said quietly. I can never find words to convey what I saw in him then; this was not my pleasant host, this was Hardy as he would be seen in Elysium; the authentic dignity of his kingship as a poet simply transforming his face and mien.  	
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   It passed in a flash, but it remained unforgettable. In later years I had many enriching awarenesses of Hardy’s human personality, but that one strange moment of vision never came again. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 188)  354. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 July 1918), letter to John Galsworthy. Depression. […] How I should like to be on Dartmoor (where you are I imagine). But the obstacles caused by this huge tragedy created by mankind, for fun as it were, prevent my coming. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 274) 355. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 August 1918), letter to John Galsworthy. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] The fact is that I cannot do patriotic poems very well – seeing the other side too much. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 275) 356. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 September 1918), letter to Arnold Bennett. Mania and Depression. […] If it be all true that the letter prophesizes I do not think a world in which such fiendishness is possible to be worth saving. Better let Western ‘Civilization’ perish, & the black or yellow races have a chance. Moreover I don’t see how by any sort of Mutual League such nations can prevent themselves from doing what they want to do. However, I think better of the world, as a meliorist (not a pessimist as they say). The instinct of self-preservation, & an ultimate commonsense at present obscured, will, I think, hinder the evils foretold from arising. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 278) 357. Felkin, E. “Untitled,” Encounter, (21 October 1918). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Hardy said that all imaginative work was events seen through a temperament. The unconscious or conscious selection by the personality of the author must colour the work […] Hardy said that he found from experience that one could suppress one’s feelings deliberately, but even so one knew that one was still exaggerating personality in the selection of what was significant, in fact that what was to anyone significant was a kind of projection of personality. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 113-4) 358. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 25 October 1918), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania and Depression. […] T.H. is very well. He did not feel up to much, & for a fortnight I kept off everyone – except Mrs. McDowell who asked herself to tea. He seems to like her exceedingly & is always bright when she is here, so I thought that would not hurt him. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 148) 359. Sassoon, S. Siegfried’s Journey 1916-1920, (7 November 1918). Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression.  	
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   […] The pessimism which has often been imputed to him was – in his own words – merely ‘the sad science of renunciation.’ In spite of what Meredith called his ‘twilight view of life,’ he was not a melancholy man. He had a normal sense of humour and could be charmingly gay. The bitterness in his writings was meditative and impersonal. He was disappointed rather than disillusioned in his attitude to life. Instinctively compassionate, he had suffered deeply through the apparently fortuitous victimization and injustice in many human happenings. I was often astonished by an octogenarian agility and quickness which matched his alertness of mind, and can remember how – at eighty-four – when discussing some variant reading in Shakespeare, he went up to his study to fetch his facsimile edition of the First Folio. As he re-entered the room with it under his arm I realized that he must have run both ways – had at any rate performed his errand at a lively trot. His movements were brisk, purposeful, and compact. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 127)  360. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 December 1918), letter to Sir Henry Newbolt. Depression. […] My mind goes back to the row of poor young fellows in straw hats who had fallen-in in front of our County Hall here – lit by the September sun, whom my rather despondent eye surveyed. Well, it is all over now – at least I suppose so. I confess that I take a smaller interest in the human race since this outburst than I did before. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 289) 361. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 31 December 1918. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Depression. December 31. New Year’s Eve. Did not sit up. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 190) 362. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 10 January 1919), letter to Harold Child. Depression. Dear Mr. Child: We are truly sorry to hear of your bereavement, of which we were quite in ignorance. Such wrenches leave indelible scars on one’s life, so far as my experience goes, & it has been rather intense in that direction of late years, unhappily. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 290) 363. Hardy, T., Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, (London: Hogarth Press Ltd., 1955), 25 January 1919. Mania and Morbidity. Mr. Prideaux tells me more details of the death of Mary Channing, burnt for the poisoning of her husband – (not proven) – in Maumbury Rings, Dorchester, in 1705. They were told him by old M – , a direct descendant of one who was a witness of the execution. He said that after she had been strangled and the burning had commenced she recovered consciousness (probably owing to the pain from the flames) and writhed and shrieked. One of the constables thrust a swab into her mouth to stop her cries, and the milk from her bosoms (she had lately given birth to a child) squirted out in their faces ‘and made ‘em jump back.’ The  	
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   above account, with other details – (such as the smell of roast meat, etc.) – was handed down from my respected ancestor who was present and gives a sufficiently horrible picture. (Thomas Hardy’s Notebooks, 82-3)  364. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 April 1919), letter to Alfred Pope. Depression. Dear Mr. Pope; We have been grieved to learn of the loss you & Mrs. Pope have sustained in the death of your son after his long battle for life against the malady caused by military strains & hardships. That is the insidious evil of campaigning – what it leaves behind. You will know, I am sure, that you have our deep sympathy in this taking of yet one more of your family by the late war. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 302) 365. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 May 1919), letter to Sir George Douglas. Depression and Morbidity. […] I have not been doing much – mainly destroying papers of the last 30 or 40 years, & they raise ghosts. Kipling, by the way, whom I met in London, said that we all seem ghosts nowadays. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 303-4) 366. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 May 1919), letter to H.G. Welles. Mania. Dear H.G.W.: I was going to wait till I had finished the book before writing to thank you very heartily for the kind gift of it, but as we are reading it aloud, & my wife is away temporarily, I write now. I am quite childishly curious about that operation on poor Huss, but have to be honest to peep & learn its result. One excellent effect has already resulted in this house from the story. Strict orders have been given in the kitchen, I find, that all lettuce must be washed most rigorously. What an extraordinarily wide sweep over human conditions you take, & how eloquently you expound them. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 308) 367. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 5 June 1919), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Depression. […] Sincere thanks for your good wishes, my dear friend, which I echo back towards you. I should care more for my birthdays if at each succeeding one I could see any sign of real improvement in the world – as at one time I fondly hoped there was; but I fear that what appears much more evident is that it is getting worse & worse. All development is of a material & scientific kind - & scarcely any addition to our knowledge is applied to objects philanthropic or ameliorative. I almost think that people were less pitiless towards their fellcreatures – human & animal – under the Roman Empire than they are now: so why does not Christianity throw up the sponge & say I am beaten, & let another religion take its place.  	
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   I suddenly remember that we had a call from our Bishop & his wife two or three days ago, so that perhaps it is rather shabby of me to write as above. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 309)  368. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 June 1919), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania and Depression. […] I cannot say that the outlook is encouraging, though calm may last long enough for us, at any rate. But the peace seems to me far from satisfactory; & I have visions ahead of ignorance overruling intelligence, & reducing us to another Dark Age. Absit omen! Believe me always. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 314-5) 369. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 29 June 1919), letter to Bishop Handley Moule. Mania, Depression and Morbidity. […] My warm thanks for your good feeling about my birthday. The thoughts of friends about one at these times take off some of the sadness they bring as one gets old. The study of your father’s life (too short, really) has interested me much. I well remember the cholera years in Fordington: you might have added many details. For instance, every morning a man used to wheel the clothing & bed linens of those who had died in the night out into the mead, where the Vicar had a large copper set. Some were boiled there, & some burnt. He also had large fired kindled in Mill Street to carry off the infection. An excellent plan I should think. Many thanks, too for the volume of poems which duly came. ‘Apollo at Pherae’ seems to me remarkably well constructed in ‘plot,’ & the verse facile. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 315) 370. Felkin, E. “Untitled,” Encounter, (30 June 1919). Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] He said that day, too, I remember, how words got hold of people and coteries and circulated like microbes and then disappeared again. When I went, Hardy came out for a little walk with the dog. We turned our money at the sight of the new moon ‘in case,’ and then talked about poetry. Hardy was in a very cheerful mood and ran along the road a little way to make ‘Wess’ run. Hardy rolled about on the sort of ‘umpty’ with gestures and vivacity of a young man. I have never seen and aged face which becomes so animated and in which the eyes are so bright and piercing. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 115) 371, Felkin, E. “Untitled,” Encounter, (21 July 1919). Mania. To Max Gate yesterday to tea. Hardy in very good spirits, lively and excited […] Talking about time, he said that he always saw it stretch away in a long blue line like a railway line on the left (the past) and disappearing just around the crossing on his right. ‘It’s like a railway line covered with a blue haze, and it goes uphill till 1900 and then it goes over the hill and disappears till it rises again up to about 1800, and then disappears altogether.’ He went on to talk about day of the week and colours and associations. Monday was colourless, and Tuesday a little less colourless, and Wednesday was blue – ‘this sort of blue’ pointing to an imitation  	
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   Sèvres plate – and Thursday is darker blue, and Friday is dark blue, and Saturday is yellow, and Sunday always red. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 115-6)  372. Felkin, E. “Untitled,” Encounter, (10 August 1919). Depression. […] Hardy was tired and not in very good spirits at first. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 116) 373. Felkin, E. “Untitled,” Encounter, (13 August 1919). Mania, Depression and Morbidity. Up to tea with Hardy. We talked over tea about publishers. He spoke more than ever before about himself and his work probably because we were alone together […] The he took me into the churchyard, and showed me the tombs of his family and his first wife, and asked me about the pediment and inscription which he had altered […] Then we walked back very slowly, and he seemed so tired and exhausted and tottering that I wondered how he must get back. But he talked all the time about the town and his life […] One of the extraordinary things about him is the rapidity of his change of moods. He seemed quite broken up around the graves, then on the way home physically tired but mentally alert, then at the garden gate he hopped on to the bank like a young man, to put his hand over the wall and found the key. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 116-8) 374. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 11 September 1919), letter to Sir George Douglas. Morbidity. […] However I am such a poor critic of bygone authors – I mean dead authors – that I may be wrong. As to Werther, I have always had a sneaking liking for the tale, though that is morbidity, I suppose. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 323) 375. Hardy, T. (written by his Secretary, at his request) The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 30 October 1919. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] In reply to your letter I write for Mr. Hardy, who is in bed with a cold […] Speaking generally, there is more autobiography in a hundred lines of Mr. Hardy’s poetry than in all the novels. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 196) 376. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 November 1919), letter to Charles Gifford. Mania and Depression. […] We are glad to find that you are a little nearer than you were. If the railways are ever rational again we may get a glimpse of you or of Leonie. The sound of grandchildren is cheerful. I am at the fag end of my family. Your son’s connection with electricity, which is so much to the fore in everything, must be promising. We are still in the Dark Ages here, so to speak, using lamps and candles.  	
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   Yes: we have been very well this year till last week, when thought I had a slight cold we fulfilled a promise to a friend & my cold is pretty bad now in consequence. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 338)  377. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 November 1919), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] I thought the letters you allude to very charming & graceful. Gerrie as an explorer is a new idea, & rather attractive. By the way those youngsters – I mean the poets – have made me a year older than I am, but it has this convenience, that if I ever do get to be 80 I shall be able to slip by the date without much notice, it having been discounted (I think that is the commercial word) already. Emma will have been in Stinsford Churchyard seven years this month. It does not seem so long. I am sending a short poem to the Fortnightly which they asked me for a year ago. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 340) 378. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 December 1919), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania. […] My dreams are not so coherent as yours. They are more like cubist paintings & generally end by my falling down the turret stairs of an old church owing to steps being missing […] February is an uncertain month. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 351) 379. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 December 1919), letter to Dorothy Allhusen. Mania and Depression. My dear Dorothy: I am so glad to hear from you, & trust you will be having a happy time this Christmas & New Year – as happy as is possible, that is to say, in the queer state of worldly affairs into which we have drifted. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 351) 380. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 December 1919), letter to Anita Dudley. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Dear Mrs. Ambrose Dudley: I am sorry to say that your appeal for a poem for the War Commemoration Book, that should be worthy of the event of the 8th August 1918, reaches me at too late a time of life for me to be able to attempt it. – The spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak. […] The length of the late war exhausted me of all my impromptu poems dealing with that tragedy, the number of which you may not be aware of unless you are familiar with the volume of my collected verses. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 352-3) 381. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 December 1919), letter to J. McT.E, McTaggart. Mania. […] I have of late been getting out of patience, if not with philosophers, with men of science. You probably, or should I say certainly, have grasped with ease all  	
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   that Einstein has been telling us, which is more than I have done. Really after what he says the universe seems to be getting too comic for words. However, though one may think queerly of time & space I can see that motion is merely relative, & long have done so; & I feel that it is just as true to assert that the earth stands still & the rest of the universe moves as to assert the opposite: & who knows if we may not get to despise Galileo & applaud the view of the Holy Inquisition! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Five, 353)  382. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 January 1920), letter to Edmund Gosse. Morbidity. […] The hotel was, I need not say, the famous Gloucester Lodge; & as ghosts are just now in fashion perhaps you will see the spirits not only of George & Charlotte [King George III and Queen Charlotte Sophia], but of Miss Burney, Pitt, Eldon, &c. &c, all whom walked the passages there in their lifetime. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 1) 383. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 9 January 1920), letter to John Middleton Murry. Depression. […] I feel a sad sense of shortcoming at your good opinion of my writings & myself. I fear you do not know what a feeble person I really am, & how I have been weighted in the race – a race that was not worth running on my own account, though I man not sorry I have run it for the sake of one or two others. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 2) 384. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 January 1920), letter to Siegfried Sassoon. Mania and Morbidity. […] The people shadowed forth in the story being now all, alas, dead, I am able to give lights here & there on the locality, &c., which I had to obscure when the book was written. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 3) 385. Morgan, Charles. “Untitled,” Life, (February 1920). Mania and Depression. […] The origin of this bitterness was in the past where, I believe, there was indeed good reason for it, but it was directed now against contemporary critics of his own work, and I could not understand what general reason he had to complain of them. He used no names; he spoke with studied reserve, sadly rather than querulously; but he was persuaded – and there is evidence of this persuasion in the preface to the posthumous volume of his verse – that critics approached his work with an ignorant prejudice against his ‘pessimism’ which they allowed to stand in the way of fair reading and fair judgement. This was a distortion of facts as I knew them. It was hard to believe that Hardy honestly thought that his genius was not recognized; harder to believe that he thought his work was not read. […] He was not simple; he had the formal subtlety peculiar to his own generation; there was something deliberately ‘ordinary’ in his demeanour which was a concealment of extraordinary fires – a method of self-protection common enough in my grandfather’s generation, though rare now.  	
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   There are many who might have thought him unimpressive because he was content to be serious and determined to be unspectacular. But this was the kind of character to which I lay open. He was an artist, proud of his art, who yet made no parade of it; he was a traditionalist and, therefore, suspicious of fashion; he had that sort of melancholy, the absence of which in any man has always seemed to me to be a proclamation of blindness. There was in him something timid as well as something fierce, as if the world had hurt him and he expected it to hurt him again. But what fascinated me above all was the contrast between the plainness, the quiet rigidity of his behaviour, and the passionate boldness of his mind, for this I had always believed to be the tradition of English genius, too often and too extravagantly denied. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 179-80)  386. McCabe, Mr. Joseph. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 18 February 1920. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. As Mr. Hardy has a cold which makes writing trying to his eyes, I answer your letter for him. He says he thinks he is rather an irrationalist than a rationalist, on account of his inconsistencies. He has, in fact, declared as much in prefaces to some of his poems, where he explains his views as being mere impressions that frequently change. Moreover, he thinks he could show that no man is a rationalist, and that human actions are not ruled by reason at all in the last resort. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 209-10) 387. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 February 1920), letter to John Middleton Murry. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] My mind is quite vacant of any new poem, nor can I find one already written, beyond some lines I have long promised. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 9) 388. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 3 April 1920), letter to Thomas Humphry Ward. Depression. Dear Mr. Humphry Ward: I did not suspect when we last corresponded that I should be writing the next time to express sympathy with you in such a great loss. My wife & I last saw Mrs. Ward at the house in Grosvenor Place, one afternoon, & have always remembered how vigorous & zestful she seemed in all relating to literature. But Alas! My letter is belated, for I thought that while you were ill a delay would be better. I gather you are mending, & hope it to be rapidly. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 12) 389. Collins, V. H. “Introduction,” Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, (9 April 1920). Mania. When I met Hardy, he was an old man of eighty. I hesitate at the word ‘old.’ So opposed is it in its ordinary associations to the vigour of intellect and the  	
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   liveliness of sentiment which marked his conversation; the quickness of his thought; the versatility of his interests; the alertness in his voice, his gestures, his walk; his keenness of sight; the extraordinary clearness and steadiness of his hand-writing – all outward signs of that vitality which produced between the ages of seventy and eighty-five four volumes of verse, throughout which, whether we regard the intellectual or emotional force or the technique, it is impossible to detect the slightest mark of any falling-off from his earliest work […] He was very ready to respond to any question, and to follow up any subject that was introduced […] The expression of his thought flowed easily and informally – often as of a person thinking aloud. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 137)  390. Collins, V. H., Publisher (Max Gate: 9 April 1920), in-person interview. Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] C: There is one other thing I should like to add, if I am not venturing on too personal a strain – that I re-read your poetry not only with interest and admiration, but often for the consolation that beautiful poetry brings. H: Sometimes when one is sad it consoles one to read a sad poem. (Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, 12) 391. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 13 April 1920), letter to F. B. Fisher. Mania and Morbidity. […] By the way, is any member of the Holder family left at Tiverton? The late Colonel Holder, a connection of mine by marriage, lived there some time. Perhaps you could tell me if he died there, or is buried in the churchyard. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 13) 392. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 4 May 1920), letter to Harold Child. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] I am rather appalled at the prospect of my 80th birthday – and an article thereon. – However, I daresay that in your judicious hands it may not be alarming. As to the letter I wrote to Mr. Shorter about my mother at the time of her death, I should object to it, or any other letter to him, being published or alluded to. As you will well know, one is apt at such times to write more freely than at others. I do not remember what I said in the letter, but if it concerned facts of her life I can give you first hand all that I should like to be mentioned – or my wife can. She will send them to you if you wish. In respect to myself personally I am most averse to anything like an ‘interview,’ and have been for may years. Such details as it would be reasonable to print, if people want them, (would that it were impossible to print any!) she could also send you, and you could mould them into shape and good size, by warming up and adding some of the ideas that went into the making of your little book on my writings. […] I have never printed anything about my early years of authorship &c. […] But absurd paragraphs have been published in the gossip-papers purporting  	
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   to be my history. For instance, quite lately, and educated man at Oxford wrote to inquire if he might take it to be true, as reported, that the story of ‘Jude the Obscure’ was my personal history. Curiously enough, that particular novel had hardly a single fact of my own life in it, or any sort of resemblance to my experiences. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 16)  393. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 May 1920), letter to Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins. Mania and Depression. […] The last time I saw you was, I think, across a huge blue table at Wellington House, Buckingham Gate, on the memorable afternoon in September 1914, the yellow sun shining in upon our confused deliberations in a melancholy manner that I shall never forget. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 17) 394. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 16 May 1920), letter to Macleod Yearsley. Mania. […] We should be delighted to go to Weymouth to see you all, but I am sorry to say that my husband has been obliged partly through his age & declining strength, & partly through pressure of work, to give up going out to lunch. He finds that doing so disorganizes, for him, the whole day. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 166) 395. Lilly, M. “The Hardy I Knew,” Thomas Hardy Society Review 1978, vol. 1, no. 4, (Summer 1920). Mania. […] Like most people, I regarded him as the professional prophet of doom, and if he had come among us with bowed head and stricken mien it would have seemed more in keeping with what he ought to be; but no, he looked alert, serene, in fact incorrigibly cheerful. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 144-5) 396. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 2 June 1920. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania and Depression. The value of old age depends upon the person who reaches it. To some men of early performance it is useless. To others, who are late to develop, it just enables them to complete their job. We have visited two cathedrals during the last month, and I could not help feeling that if men could get a little more of the reposefulness and peace of those buildings into their lives how much better it would be for them. Nature’s indifference to the advance of her species along what we are accustomed to call civilized lines makes the late war of no importance to her, except as a sort of geological fault in her continuity. Though my life, like the lives of my contemporaries, covers a period of more material advance in the world than any of the same length can have done in other centuries, I do not find that real civilization has advanced equally. People are not more human, so far as I can see, than they were in the year of my birth. Disinterested kindness is less. The spontaneous goodwill that used to characterize manual workers seems to have departed. One day of late a railway porter said to  	
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   a feeble old lady, a friend of ours, ‘See to your luggage yourself.’ Human nature had not sunk so low as that in 1840. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 212-3)  397. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 8 June 1920), letter to A. C. Benson. Depression and Morbidity. Dear Dr. Benson: I send my very warm thanks for the kind wishes & congratulations that reached me last week from yourself & the College. I have decided that it was worth while to live to be eighty to discover what friends there were about me up & down the world, & my judgment against the desirability of being so long upon earth is therefore for a time at least suspended […] How I wish I could be often at dear old Magdalene. But the war, after taking away the spirit to go anywhere while it lasted, has left behind complications that get more troublesome with the years, & my powers of locomotion naturally do not increase. I shall always remember those few pleasant days we had with you just on the eve, or near it, of that mad convulsion, which did more mischief in five years than a University can mean in a hundred I fear. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 1324 398. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 15 June 1920), letter to The Revd. J. H. Dickinson Gosse. Depression. […] I used, of course, to know the church quite well, & have a vivid recollection of going there on more than one Sunday evening in summer with Miss Gifford when I was visiting at St. J., & the churchwarden lighting the candles for the evening hymn. But these things are passing to ‘the land where all things are forgotten.’ (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 29) 399. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 21 June 1920), letter to Sir Henry Newbolt. Mania and Depression. […] My interest in Salisbury Cathedral, which is of course architectural, has lasted ever since 1860, when it began with me, on visiting it as an architect’s pupil; & I remember well my first sight of its unrivalled outline – through a driving mist that nearly hid the top of the spire. At that time the interior, as arranged by Wyatt, was still untouched by Scott, the organ being over the screen. The result was that a greater air of mystery & gloom hung over the interior than does now. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 30) 400. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 30 June 1920), letter to Edward Clodd. Mania. […] Our ancestors used to burn these mediums – or witches as they were then called; but we reward them – a more humane, though mischievous, treatment. When the Witch of Endor called up Samuel we are not told what he paid her, but the case is of course an exact parallel to present practice, for one clearly gathers that Saul did not see Samuel, who conversed with him through the witch – as now. She was afraid, when she knew him: but now they are not afraid! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 31)  	
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    401. Zachrisson, R. E. Thomas Hardy as a Man, Writer and Philosopher, (August 1920) p. 23. Mania and Morbidity. […] Mr. Hardy was not sparing with words. His conversation was easy and natural, passing from grave to gay subjects. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 133) 402. Graves, R. Sphere, (August 1920). Mania. […] My next meeting with Hardy was in August 1920. We found Hardy looking ten years younger than he had seemed at Oxford. He was active and gay, with none of the aphasia and wandering of attention that we had noticed. He took in everything that was said, letting nothing pass. He seemed to regard us as representatives of the post-War generation, and was humbly anxious to know how we looked at things, and ready, if necessary to revise his opinions. He lived such a quiet life in Dorchester, he said, that he feared he was quite behind the times. He wanted, for instance, to know whether he could trust the Conservative newspaper that he took in its accounts of the Red Terror. Then he was interested in Nancy Nicholson’s hair, which she wore short, in advance of the fashion, and in her keeping her name unaltered after marriage. His comment on the name question was, ‘Why, you are old-fashioned. I knew an old couple here sixty years ago that did the same. The woman was called Nanny Priddle (descendant of an ancient family, the Paradelles, long decayed into peasantry), and she would never change her name either.’ Then, he wanted to know why I no longer used my army rank of captain; I said that it was because I was no longer a soldier […] At dinner that night he grew enthusiastic in praise of cider, which he had drunk since a boy and thought one of the finest medicines he knew. He began complaining of autograph-hunters and their persistence. He disliked leaving letters unanswered, particularly as if he did not write, these people pestered him the more; he had been rather upset that morning by a letter from an autograph-fiend. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 134-5) 403. Parker, W. M. “ Visit to Thomas Hardy,” Monographs on the Life, Times and Works of Thomas Hardy, (September 1920). Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] Perhaps the first aspect of Hardy’s appearance to strike the observer was his high-domed head; in the majority of cases a sure sign of great imagination […] But the object of surpassing interest was the face itself. Sad, intensely sad, and deeply wrinkled, it possessed a certain likeness to a large withered walnut […] His speech came clear and liquid, and his conversation free and easy. When humour became uppermost (and I discovered that Hardy the man appeared a much happier entity than Hardy the creator as revealed in his works), he gave way to subdued laughter accompanied by a merry twinkle in the eyes […] After a brief pause, Hardy threw back his head. ‘All this talk about my pessimism!’ he exclaimed, in a rather disgusted tone. ‘What does it matter what an author’s view of life is? If he finally succeeds in conveying a completely satisfying artistic  	
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   expression, that is what counts. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 147-8)  404. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 September 1920), letter to Florence Hardy. Mania and Morbidity. My dearest F: Nothing has happened here - & I only write that you may not be anxious. I went to Talbothays yesterday. I suppose Miss Scudamore will call presently. Colonel Tweedie died on Saturday & was buried yesterday. I have been doing the Post Office tablet all morning. Ever yours, Th: H. There are one or two letters but as they seem of no importance I don’t enclose them – one seems a receipt from Harrods. I sent on a letter yesterday to you at Club. Miss Scudamore just called for Wess. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 38) 405. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 31 October 1920), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] I like this mysterious eve of saintly ghosts, & also to-morrow eve, of All Souls. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 45) 406. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 1 December 1920), letter to An Unidentified Correspondent. Mania and Affective Aesthetic Expression. A friend of mine writes objecting to what he calls my ‘philosophy’ (though I have no philosophy – merely what I have often explained to be only a confused heap of impressions, like those of a bewildered child at a conjuring show). He says he has never been able to conceive a Cause of Things that could be less in any respect than the thing caused. This apparent impossibility to him, and to so many, has been long ago proved non-existent by philosophers, and is very likely owing to his running his head against a Single Cause, and perceiving no possible other. But if he would discern against what we call the First Cause should be called First Causes, his difficulty would be lessened. Assume a thousand unconscious causes – lumped together in poetry as one Cause, or God – and bear in mind that a coloured liquid can be produced by the mixture of colourless ones, a noise by the juxtaposition of silences, etc., etc., and you see that the assumption that intelligent beings arise from the combined action of unintelligent forces is sufficiently probable for imaginative writing, and I have never attempted scientific. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 48) 407. Collins, V. H., Publisher (Max Gate: 7 December 1920), in-person interview. Mania. […] C: Could you add a motto, as you sometimes do – say from the Bible?  	
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   H: That is a good idea. But I fear the Bible will not do. They did not believe in madness as we understand it. (Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, 25)  408. Collins, V. H., Publisher (Max Gate: 7 December 1920), in-person interview. Mania. […] C: What is ‘the evil wrought at Rou’tor Town’? H: Slander, or something of that sort…(Turning over the pages of Collected Poems, and pointing to ‘Near Lanviet’) This is a poem which is often neglected. (Turning over some more pages, and pointing to ‘At the Word Farewell’): This is quite a good poem too. But of course there are plenty of love poems to choose from…Do you think the price of books is likely to go down? (Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, 26) 409. Collins, V. H., Publisher (Max Gate: 7 December 1920), in-person interview. Mania. […] C: He dislikes cold weather very much, does he not? Mrs. H: Yes, he says it freezes his brains. C: I have noticed his dislike of it expressed very often in the poems. I suppose that the large majority of people do prefer summer to winter, and of course our language is full of the metaphorical use, in a forbidding sense, of words commonly applied to winter – ‘cold,’ ‘bleak,’ etc. But your husband’s frequently expressed dislike of winter has struck me as almost strange in one who clearly has always been a great walker in all seasons and who shows such close observations of Nature in her inclement as well as clement moods. Mrs. H: I myself often feel very well in dry cold weather, but my husband says that it is very thoughtless to say ‘What a lovely frosty day’ when one remembers all the suffering and cruelty it means to birds and other creatures. (Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, 36-7) 410. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 19 December 1920. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] My imagination may have often run way with me; but all the same, my sober opinion – so far as I have any definite one – of the Cause of Things, has been defined in scores of places, and is that of a great many ordinary thinkers: that the said Cause is neither moral nor immoral, but unmoral: ‘loveless and hateless’ I have called it, ‘which neither good nor evil knows’ – etc., etc. – (you will find plenty of these definitions in The Dynasts as well as in short poems, and I am surprised that you have not taken them in). This view is quite in keeping with what you call a Pessimistic philosophy (a mere nickname with no sense in it), which I am quite unable to see as ‘leading logically to the conclusion that the Power behind the universe is malign.’ (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 217) 411. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 20 December 1920), letter to Alfred Noyes. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression.  	
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   […] In my fancies, or poems of the imagination, I have of course called this Power all sorts of names – never supposing they would be taken for more than fancies. I have even in prefaces warned readers to take them only as such – as mere impression of the moment, exclamations, in fact. […] This week I have had sent me a review which quotes a poem titled ‘To my father’s violin,’ containing a Virgilian reminiscence of mine of Acheron and the Shades. The reviewer comments: ‘Truly this pessimism is unsupportable…One marvels that Hardy is not in a madhouse.’ Such is English criticism; and I repeat, Why did I ever write a line! (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 54-5)  412. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 22 December 1920), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] I am as stationary as a tree, & don’t feel any the worse for it, though whatever moss I may gather is taken away by the tax-collector […] This morning was beautiful: we went to Stinsford & put flowers on ‘our’ graves, as we call them. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 56-7) 413. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 23 December 1920), letter to J. J. Foster. Depression. […] I write on the brink of an anniversary, & send you & your house the good wishes of the season; even though anniversaries to people of my age cannot be, in the nature of things, very cheerful occasions. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 58) 414. Hardy, T. The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, (London: Macmillan & Co, 1930), 23 December 1920. Ed. Florence Emily Hardy. Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] It is my misfortune that people will treat all my mood-dictated writing as a single scientific theory. (The Later Years of Thomas Hardy, 219) 415. Hardy, Florence, (Max Gate, Dorchester: 26 December 1920), letter to Sydney Cockerell. Mania, Depression and Affective Aesthetic Expression. […] T. is very well. At the party (of the Mummers etc) last night he was so gay & one of them said to me that he had never seen him so young & happy & excited. He is now – this afternoon – writing a poem with great spirit: always a sign of well-being with him. Needless to say it is an intensely dismal poem. (Letters of Emma and Florence Hardy, 171) 416. Collins, V. H. “Interview,” Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, (27 December 1920). Mania. […] H: I am very anxious not to be obscure. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 140) 417. Collins, V. H., Publisher (29 December 1920), in-person interview. Depression and Morbidity.  	
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   […] He shakes hands, and turns to leave the room. As he does so his eyes meet the portrait of the Lady in the blue and white gown. Her gaze is directed straight in front of her – the full red lips half parted as if about to speak. The visitor forgets Stevenson, and Thiers, and Napoleon, and the war of a hundred years ago, and the Great War of which the truth shall not be told for another hundred years. His thoughts go to the Poems of 1912-13: Veteris Vestigia Flammae; and to a grave in Mellstock Churchyard where that morning he had stood and watched the rain dripping on to a tombstone inscribed ‘Emma Lavinia Gifford – This for Remembrance,’ and to one who must have sat in that room for many hours during twenty years – one with whose influence, direct and indirect, on the life of her husband, there must be connected so much of the anguish and sadness, and the philosophy, and the beauty, of the works of Thomas Hardy. (Talks with Thomas Hardy at Max Gate 1920-1922, 44-5)  418. Hind, C. L. Authors and I, (1921). Depression. […] On my way to Max Gate I called at a bookshop in Dorchester and inquired of an elderly, prim, and rather tart female if she had a copy of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, which had lately been published, and which had been received by what is known in England as the ‘rectory public’ somewhat superciliously. I think it shocked them. In response to my inquiry the prim female said that she had not a copy of Jude the Obscure in stock. ‘What!’ I cried, ‘in his native Dorchester you have not a copy of the latest book by the greatest living English novelist.’ She eyed me with hauteur, and, tossing her head, said: ‘Perhaps we have not the same opinion of Mr. Hardy in Dorchester as you have elsewhere.’ I withdrew. I was too amused to be angry. Indeed, so amused was I at this encounter with the ‘rectory public’ that when I reached Max Gate I told the story to Mr. Hardy with glee. He did not smile: perhaps he looked a little sadder than usual. For it is a sad, tired face, very gentle, with much sweetness, yet alert as a bird’s […] Later, when I was about to depart, he came into the hall and looked at me with sad sympathy. He accompanied me to the garden gate, and as I was in the midst of bidding him a respectful adieu he said in his gentle voice – ‘By the by, which shop is it where they are disinclined to stock my books?’ (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 53) 419. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 7 February 1921), letter to John Galsworthy. Mania. […] How I should like to be in California all of a sudden – say for a week or two – borne thither on the magician’s carpet. But to travel all they way there to see & experience its climate & beauties, & through a country where ‘only the language is different,’ as somebody says, - no, thank you. […] That mysterious ocean [Pacific] (to me), which some say the moon came out of: at any rate I like to think it did though I believe geologists & astronomers doubt the possibility of it […] A friend of mine thinks the great danger is to art & literature, & that a new Dark Age is coming along, in which our books will be pulped to make new paper for football & boxing journals & cinema descriptions. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 71)  	
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    420. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 14 April 1921), letter to Florence Henniker. Mania and Morbidity. […] When I shall get to London I do not know, what with railway & coal strikes & other things. Those who died before 1914 are out of it, thank Heaven - & ‘have the least to pay’ according to the old epitaph. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 82) 421. Asquith, Lady C. “Untitled,” Portrait of Barrie, (11-12 May 1921). Mania. […] At times Hardy was quietly caustic, particularly about a certain, what he called, ‘Well-known Society Lady,’ who, though he has never met her, has just sent him a complete set of his works with the request that he should inscribe each volume ‘To So-and-so from her friend Thomas Hardy!’ […] Next morning Hardy came down very spry, positively garrulous – to breakfast, after which he took us upstairs to see the small ‘study’ where he writes. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 161-2) 422. Murry, J. M. Katherine Mansfield and Other Literary Portraits, (26-27 May 1921). Mania and Depression. […] There was also a peculiar quality in his greatness which made an intimate and almost painful appeal […] ‘It’s never one moment the same,’ he said, pointing to the trees. ‘They change continually. When you know them, they are different every morning. (Thomas Hardy: Interviews and Recollections, 154-8) 423. Hardy, Thomas, Novelist and Poet (Dorchester, Dorset: 6 July 1921), letter to Walter de la Mare. Depression. […] I have just corrected the proof of a wretchedly bad poem, that nobody wanted me to write, nobody wants to read & nobody will remember who reads it. (The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, Vol. Six, 1395 424. Mare, W. de la. The Listener, (16-17 June 1921). Mania, Morbidity and Affective Aesthetic Expression. Hardy was not wholly in his novels, though all his novels were wholly within himself […] He made not the slightest attempt to twist or contort me into becoming an atheist. His ‘pessimism’ did not wrap me up in an evil cloud haunted by demons. Neither G. K. Chesterton’s Hardy, nor, assuredly, George Moore’s, made the faintest appearance in my happy days with him. We actually met on Dorchester station’s down platform. He showed a child’s satisfaction and a rare courtesy almost peculiar to himself, in his immediate apology that in spite of every effort he had failed to get me a cab. And so at length we came to his house, Max