At the heart of Trollope's Phineas Finn lies quite a unique (and perhaps presciently postmodern) notion of politics. However, to get at this theory, we readers must wade through the immense amount of exposition that typifies Trollope's writing. We must patiently and assiduously gather plot details from the frequent and plentiful parlor chat, table talk, and other various and sundry gossip that Trollope uses to advance what is an otherwise exceedingly meager plot. Nevertheless, such exposition, which moves at a pace roughly equivalent to that of continental drift, rewards the reader with quite a keen insight into mid-nineteenth century British politics and its relationship to the reality of human nature.

Perhaps the easiest way to approach the political critique at the heart of this novel is by defining the operative assumptions underlying representative politics in general. In theory, representative government is intended to grant the citizenry a say in legislative process, albeit indirectly. A particular representative is supposed to vote on a piece of proposed legislation in such a way that reflects the greater concerns of his constituency. Prior to the events of Phineas Finn, British representative government is grappling with the issue of whom to extend the franchise based on the criteria of real wealth, property, region of origin, etc. One thus gets the sense that the presence of such exclusionary criteria betrays a rather Platonic distaste for general democracy on the part of the parliament ministers. Thus, in creating a system of barriers or gateways between the public at large and the legislative apparatus, the governing body reduces the potential for an anarchic clamor of myriad and wide-ranging interests on the part of the citizenry, which could potentially derail the legislative process altogether. As a result a properly civic-minded representative may always act for the good of his constituency by exercising his judgment, regardless of whether or not his vote conflicts with his constituents' desires. In other words, built into this system of government is the elitist conviction that the governed may be at times too unruly to exercise its franchise prudently. Therefore, by withholding the franchise from those deemed too ignorant to vote wisely (a determination based on various socioeconomic considerations), and by inserting elected officials between the enfranchised and the legislative apparatus itself, government achieves a normative regularity.

However, with the implementation of such a system of governments also come opportunities to exploit and abuse the system. A certain aphorism-- which I attribute to Michel Foucault, though I am not entirely certain that it is indeed his-- comes to mind: "a system is defined by what escapes it." In other words, because a system results from the desire to perpetuate the plane of consistency from which it emerges, the system must necessarily exclude that which is inconsistent with its purpose. Therefore, around any system arises a margin of excluded possibilities and potentialities; however, those dedicated to the system seek to refine it in such a way as to increase its power to envelop and re-absorb that which it had originally pushed to its margins. Thus any system exists in a state of perpetual refinement because it aims to absorb back into itself that which has escaped it into the margins.

Into such a system steps the young and callow Phineas Finn, a man who is indeed marginal in that he is Irish and a commoner, and it is that position of marginality which the system seeks to incorporate into itself. However, one must understand that the system does not incorporate into itself those who dwell at its margins in order to empower them. Rather, it seeks to neutralize the threateningly unregulated marginality that individuals like Phineas Finn represent by bringing them into its regulatory, normalizing regime, and as we shall soon see, this is precisely what almost happens to Phineas.

With the above in mind, one may ask if whether there is any real benefit to entering such a system, if it is indeed essentially neutralizing and normalizing. I answer provisionally that the system into which Phineas enters, i.e., British Parliament, conceals its regulatory, homogenizing and neutralizing essence beneath a seductive veneer of power and celebrity, and it is this veneer to which Phineas succumbs. That is, it seems that at first a government office offers one the ability to satisfy one's desires, because it is a forum policymaking that also generates a cult of celebrity, and I need not explain the advantages of being a celebrity. Therefore, although we may initially think Phineas one lucky devil, we soon discover that Phineas's various political adventures are characterized by the necessity of forsaking that which he desires. For example, Phineas must abandon his desire for Lady Laura Standish because he cannot satisfy Lady Laura's own political ambitions, and later his political indebtedness to Lord Brantford forces him to abandon of his desire for Violet Effingham, with whom Lord Chiltern is in love. In fact, Phineas soon discovers that posturing, longwinded orations and cloakroom alliances epitomize politics more than any deep desire to get things done.

Mr. Kennedy, on the other hand, is quite a virtuous consummate politician, because he is devoted to carrying out every administrative detail that accompanies government office. In truth though, he is really nothing more than a particularly diligent paper pusher. But, however propitious his demeanor is to the endless administrative duties he must carry out, Trollope nevertheless portrays him as a dry, sober, and nearly humorless. Furthermore, Trollope also portrays Mr. Kennedy a sort of gentle but effective disciplinarian in his married life. Thus we may conclude that political success requires the abnegation, or at least the endless deferral, of one's true desires, and that the most successful politician is one who can most effectively subordinate his desire to the workings of government. Therefore, the system seduces Phineas and his peers with a promise of power that it never delivers, and furthermore the system steals one's position of resistance from him via assimilation into a normalizing regime.

Thus we have arrived at the essence of Trollope's political critique: that the British system of representative government is not dedicated to progress, but to stasis. The government preserves and extends the influence of the status quo through a subtle and complex array of practices: e.g., needlessly repetition of proposed legislature, stupifyingly long-winded filibusters, etc. These practices thus result in a perpetual deferral of desire on the part of plebeian, politician and rising young man alike.

All merits of the novel itself aside (and I did enjoy it very much), this edition seems to have been cobbled together either hastily or carelessly. It was full of errors in punctuation and spelling (including inconsistent spelling of characters' names) which I can hardly believe are the author's. It was a disappointment to me, especially given the fine tradition of the Everyman Library.

Also, the notes on the text, as is unfortunately so common, give away major plot points. I would strongly advise anyone reading for pleasure rather than scholarship skip the notes, or read them only once you've finished the book.

That said, Phineas Finn was a wonderful read. I began Trollope with Can You Forgive Her?, and while I did like it, I liked Phineas so much more. Unlike many male novelists of the period (especially those who were, as Trollope, embraced at the time), he demonstrates a sympathy for and understanding of the difficult choices presented to the women of his time, and does not shrink from presenting women who are intelligent, complex, and quite at home in the political world of London. Lady Laura Standish, Miss Violet Effingham, and Madame Max Goesler might each have been the heroines of their own novels--indeed, their complexities and the depths of their emotional and political lives throw Phineas's own lack of depth and complexity into relief. And by that I don't mean that Trollope nodded while writing his hero, but that he rather deftly endowed him with indifferent qualities as compared to the women his life.

I wouldn't give away the ending of the novel, but I confess I was a little disappointed in Phineas's final choice. Trollope was, after all, a Victorian gentleman, and perhaps he must be forgiven for wrapping up his hero's adventures in what seemed to me rather a prosaic way. I have yet to read Phineas Redux, and perhaps that sequel may redeem Mr. Finn yet.

PHINEAS FINN is a book of many virtues and one unfortunate flaw. The flaw lies in the ending, of which I can say nothing here without giving away a bit of the plot. Let me just say that the ending is a bit of a "tack on." Trollope himself confessed in his AUTOBIOGRAPHY that he botched the ending, and explains that when he decided to write a second novel starring Phineas Finn, he awkwardly had to correct the mistakes he made in the ending of the previous book.

The virtues of the book lie in part in its presentation of the social complexities of the British upper class in 1860s. While a political history of the period could explain the various ins and outs of the major pieces of legislation dealt with at the time, Trollope shows us how many individuals at the time actually felt about these issues from the inside. In this way, Trollope performs a service that no historian ever could. Virtually all the major political figures of the time, from Gladstone to Disraeli appear under thinly veiled aliases.

But the true heart of the book is Trollope's great characters. I absolutely love Jane Austen. She is one of my two or three favorite writers. But sometimes I find the enormous propriety of her characters to be a tad tiring. In these way her characters, as magnificent as they otherwise might be, sometimes seem a little less than fully human. Trollope's characters, on the other hand, often fail to act with complete propriety. They do improper things, and feel improper emotions. Our hero falls in love with one woman, then another, feels attraction to another, and falls in love with yet another, and in general fails in his role as a great romantic hero. A woman marries someone she doesn't love, yet retains feelings for another, and suffers from the threat of a bad marriage. Another woman is attracted to two men, and must decide which. Two close friends love the same woman. I find all this emotional complexity to be extremely compelling.

Trollope's most compelling and interesting characters are nearly all female. In the book, Lord Chiltern seems cardboardish and unbelievable, the title character likable but not terribly vivid. But whenever Lady Laura, or Madame Goesler, or Violet Effingham take the stage, the novel comes to life. This is not unique to this novel. In nearly all his books, Trollope's most compelling characters are female.

If we could give half stars, I would give this one four and a half stars because of the weak ending. But I will stick with five rather than four, partly because the rest of the book easily makes up for the weakish ending, and one can view the excellent PHINEAS REDUX as the real ending of the novel. Either way, I heartily recommend the novel.

The Moonstone is a slow-paced detective novel written in the 19th century in London, England. The Moonstone was first obtained by Colonel Herncastle who bequeaths it to his niece Miss Rachel on her sixteenth birthday. She is thrilled with her gift and sets the gem in her bedside table that night. When she awakens the next morning, the moonstone is nowhere to be found. The loss of the moonstone is told by Mr. Betteredge, a servant in Miss Rachel's house. Mr. Betteredge offers an outside opinion, as he is not directly involved in the mystery, but sees all that goes on. The rest of the book is split up into different narratives from various characters of the book. Each character's narrative is able to give the reader more pieces to the puzzle. Wilkie Collins wrote this book so well that the characters stand on their own during their narratives. Their personalities surface and are not supported by one another. This was very helpful in keeping the characters straight due to the detail and character that Collins gave them. I really liked this part of the book because all the clues to the mystery weren't given to the reader on a silver platter. Every character in the book had a separate identity. They had more purpose than just happening to be involved in the mystery.
The Moonstone is also unpredictable. Collins will lead the reader to believe and act on other facts before turning the evidence completely around and ending up with a conclusion that throws the reader for a loop. I appreciated this because it kept me reading. I found out who stole the moonstone along with the characters. It was refreshing not to know the answer and having to wait for the other characters to figure it out. I also found the little subplots that were created during the story. They showed the interactions of the characters and helped to explain the personalities of the characters even more. The only problem that I found with The Moonstone is that Collins has a lot of patience. He is content to examine every detail before moving on with the next piece to the puzzle. He also encourages his characters to wait with the solving of the mystery. It is almost exasperating to be so close in solving the mystery that only one character must be interviewed. Almost always, the character will be indisposed or out-of-town. It was a little frustrating to have to wait for the characters to return and having to read about what they had for dinner in the meantime. On a positive note, reading The Moonstone was like watching a movie. However, instead of watching the characters eat, the reader reads about it. This still only adds to the detail of the book and makes you appreciate Collins work on making sure that every element of the story is attended to. All in all, The Moonstone was a great novel, and I would recommend it to anyone who likes a good puzzle to solve.

I say The Moonstone is 'almost' excellent because I've read The Woman In White, which is by far a superior novel. If Wilkie Collins had not written The Woman In White, I would say that The Moonstone is an excellent book, but the author has surpassed that. The Moonstone is an interesting crime novel where the narrative changes several times throughout the novel. This is a very interesting technique that keeps you turning the pages to see what the next character will have to say about the mysterious disappearance of the Indian Diamond, the Moonstone. Wilkie Collins has created a very interesting and diverse set of characters. Definately recommended.

The Moonstone is a cleverly contrived tale of a stolen Indian dimond which becomes the dangerous inheritance of Rachel Vendier. When the incredible dimond is stolen, for the second time, the seemimly simple case becomes a masterpiece of mystery and suspense. The novel entangles us in every page. We become lost in the emotions of the 19th century characters. When the mystery begins to unfold, we delieghtedly press on, only to find that Collins has outwitted us again. Collins has an amazing talent for assuming a variety of narrative voices, which keep the reader envolved with the individual characters. Each new clue elicits thousands of questions, arousing in the reader, a desire to read on and on. The Moonstone is the most outstanding cassic detective mystery novel ever written.

I've been catching up on Wells' work lately, and up to this point, I've been fairly impressed. His best work, written at the turn of the century, holds up fairly well: it's entertaining and thought-provoking (The Time Machine, War of the Worlds).

I wasn't very impressed with this book, however. It doesn't read like his other works. The story probably could have been told in 20 or so pages, definitely a short-story candidate. I was amazed that Wells stretched this out to its present length, as the middle 40-odd pages were quite dull and really didn't go anywhere.

The science behind the story (while iffy, of course), is fascinating. Griffin is a great character, but more could have been done with him, besides his spending so much time having to convince people that he IS, in fact, invisible ("I am invisible. I really am an invisible man", etc, etc). It gets mind-numbing after a while. I guess the biggest let-down of the book is the fact that the title gives everything away. Once you've seen the cover, you pretty much have it; no real surprises. Yep, he's invisible, and there ya go.

What a great idea to assemble scifi icons from Star Trek to perform various H.G. Wells's classics! Of the works they've performed are: The Invisible Man, The Time Machine, The First Men in the Moon, and Journey to the Center of the Earth.

This audio recording of The Invisible Man was easy listening, and fun too. It's definitely worth a listen. I'm going to have to check out the others!

One side note, obviously the original work was abridged and adapted for audio drama. You'll still want to read the classic.

Okay, so Wells didn't load the book with the violence seen in the recent movie Hollow Man. Consider when the book was written, and what was comparable at the time. I, for one, was engrossed in the book and read it in about three sittings.

Wells excellently portrayed Griffin (Invisible Man) as a man crossing back and forth from sanity to madness. You may catch yourself considering how you would overcome his difficulties, or how you might abuse his power.

What really stood out for me was the tongue-in-cheek undertones Wells incorporated into the story, such as the cockney dialect and rustic behavior of the people of Iping. Also, consider Wells' narration during intense moments, such as the fight between Griffin and the people of Iping...
"...[Huxter's] shin was caught in some mysterious fashion, and he was no longer running, but flying with inconceivable rapidity through the air. He saw the ground suddenly close to his face. The world seemed to splash into a million whirling specks of light, and subsequent proceedings interested him no more."
Later elaboration of the events included the terrifying realization that Griffin was "smiting and overthrowing, for the mere satisfaction of hurting."

If you find the book difficult to follow, try the version adapted by Malvina Vogel, complete with illustrations by Pablo Marcos. It's not as powerful, but easier to understand.

For those seeking the famous tale on which the recent film wasbased, this will sorely disappoint. This is Scott's tale of a youngEnglishman, son of a prosperous middle class businessman, who is sent to live w/distant cousins in the north of England (just below the Scottish border) because of his failure to live up to his father's mercantile expectations of him. Here he becomes involved with all manner of intrigue and gets pulled into a vortex of events involving rebellion against the English crown, a scheming cousin, a beautiful girl and that famous Scottish outlaw and freedom fighter, Rob Roy. But the outlaw, certainly the most interesting character in the tale, is only a side player, so to speak, and makes a number of appearances, often in disguises ( a favorite Scott motif), only to guide and/or rescue our blundering hero. This is most definitely not a tale of high adventure and derring do, and the complex and twisted intrigues of the plot do not sustain the book adequately. For those who like period pieces or the works of the masters (and Scott was certainly one), this book might be okay. But this is one of those rare instances where the movie, based apparently on Scott's preface to his book (in which he sketches out the life and times of the historical Rob Roy), is better. And frankly the movie wasn't half bad; far superior, in fact, to that other film of historical Scotland of the same vintage with Mel Gibson. Oddly enough, the Rob Roy film did worse @ the box office. Who can account for some people's taste? -- Stuart W. Mirsky

Sir Walter Scott is widely acknowledged as the creator of the historical fiction genre. His best known book is Ivanhoe, which I have not read. I instead decided to read Rob Roy, a book I became familiar with due to the 1995 movie of the same name starring Liam Neeson and Tim Roth. Rob Roy, written in 1817, takes us back in time to the 1715 Jacobite uprising.

Surprisingly, Rob Roy is not the main character of the book. Rob Roy's appearances in the book are spotty, at best. Instead, Francis Osbaldistone is both narrator and main character. Francis, we quickly find out, is more interested in poetry than in business. His father, who hoped for Francis to take over the family business, becomes angry with his son and banishes him to his brother's estate, Osbaldistone Hall. Francis's relatives are all country hicks, with the exception of Diana Vernon, an astonishingly beautiful "cousin" who stays with the Osbaldistones for reasons best left unrevealed here. Francis also encounters the treacherous Rashleigh Osbaldistone, the cousin who is to replace Francis at his father's business. Francis soon becomes embroiled in several adventures, usually with Scottish sidekick/groundskeeper Andrew Fairservice and Glasgow businessman Nicol Jarvie at his side. Needless to say, Francis falls in love with Diana Vernon and becomes entangled in the machinations of the Jacobite rebellion.

I found myself amazed at Scott's depictions of women in this book. Diana Vernon is not only beautiful; she's smart, self-assured, and a very dominant figure. Rob Roy's wife, Helen MacGregor, also is presented as strong and domineering. I find this fascinating in a novel written in the early 19th century. Even more surprising is Francis; he is depicted as weak and easily dominated. Between Rashleigh, Rob Roy, and Diana, Francis never seems to know what is happening and is easily brought to emotional frenzies by the other characters. You quickly begin to wonder how this guy can get anything done.

There are two minor problems in Rob Roy. First, I'll mention the Scottish dialect. Scott, in an effort to be authentic, makes liberal use of the Scottish accent. This isn't much of a problem in the first part of the book, but in the second half it becomes a serious issue. Even worse, Scott uses the Scottish characters to reveal major plot points. Therefore, if you can't read the dialect, you're in trouble. This wouldn't be bad if a glossary had been included in the book, but there isn't one. After awhile, I realized that "bluid" was blood, and that "muckle" meant much, but the inclusion of many Scottish idioms had me totally dumbfounded. Other Scott novels in the Penguin series include a glossary of Scottish terms, but not their edition of Rob Roy.

Second, the pacing of the book is most unusual. For some 200 pages, nothing much happens. I've read many novels from this time period, and most move faster than Scott. This doesn't make Rob Roy a bad book, but it does take patience to get to the end. Even when the plot starts to thicken, Scott still takes a lot of time to unfold events. In some aspects, this lends a distinct quaintness to the book. At other times, it can become annoying. It is easy to understand how many people would lose patience with the book and give up.

This is still an entertaining book, and I highly recommend it to those interested in historical fiction. Despite a few problems I had with the book, I would like to read more of Scott's work in the future. I shall certainly look for editions with glossaries so I can navigate the Scottish words. By the way, the man on the cover of the Penguin edition is William, 18th Earl of Sutherland.

Robert Louis Stevenson called "Rob Roy" Sir Walter Scott's finest achievement. I do not disagree. Set shortly after the unification of 1707, Scott tells the tale of the protestant Francis Osbaldistone as he bids adieu to his father's London commercial interests and enters, as an exile, the baronial home of his papist relations in the north. His cousin Rashleigh assumes the commercial role intended for Frank and uses his newfound access to stir loyalist feelings in the Scottish Highlands by ruining the far-flung credit of the Osbaldistone business. Frank, upon uncovering the conspiracy, sets forth to Glasgow with the mercurial gardner, Andrew Fairservice, as his guide to right the wrongs of the scheming Rashleigh. Ever dependent on the outlaw, Rob Roy MacGregor, to intervene in his behalf, Francis Osbaldistone leaps from one adventurous situation to another in his fight to clear his family name. Along the way, Frank meets and falls in love with the outspoken and beautiful Diana Vernon who aids him in his plight. Though a fair portion of this book is related in the Scottish vernacular, there is a glossary in the back of this edition that will easily point the way. Even so, the reader will confidently understand the vernacular when one-third through the book. This is a classic that can be enjoyed by anyone, particularly those interested in period and place.

Not London's most famous story, and with reason, the Sea Wolf combines adventure narrative and commentary on life similar to some of London's other stories. Wolf Larson is a man with an indominatble will who would become a despot if given the chance. However, since the oppurtunity never arose, he must be content to rule over only his ship. While the people under his rule may be few, his power over them is complete. He is harsh, an atheist who views the human race as fermenting yeast. He is one of the strongest characters I have met in literature, and more dynamic than the others anyway. [I mean, Moby Dick's Ahab is strong-willed and rules his crew, but his character is one dimensional]. However, some of the key points in the story are difficult to believe, making the novel more surreal than London's other novels. So, while interesting and worth reading, I think Call of the Wild and White Fang are better written. I read this book when I was in eighth grade.

Never has Eliot's famous verse "Not with a bang, but a whimper" come in so handy as when applied to the last few chapters of Jack London's "The Sea Wolf". The book is superbly written, but for a book to be included in a list such as the Easton Press collection of "The 100 greatest books ever written", it should be able to hold its own not only for style, but also for the tale itself, the "myth" behind it. The Sea Wolf does a fantastic job of building such a myth for about two-thirds of the novel. Then Ms Brewster appears, and suddenly the plot peters out. What begins as a gripping, sobering account of life at sea under a ruthless captain and a brutal crew, ends as a bland, unconvincing account of childish romance and "survival". If London had only combined this book's literary richness with the heart-rending plot of The Call of the Wild or White Fang, he would be truly immortal.

The book is a classic study of two characters - the Luciferian captain Wolf Larson, and the gentleman-turned-neophyte-sailor Humphrey Van Weyden. As Hump learns to survive the brutal conditions aboard Larson's ship, the Ghost, he grows from a soft academic type to a strong and resourceful survivor. Larson, the captain, is presented as a monster with no regard for human life. Larson is intrigued with Hump and engages him in philosophical discussions, but absorbs none of Hump's basic goodness. As Hump develops into a man, Larson degenerates into a blinded, diseased, pitiful creature. Hump overcomes his adverse conditions and even finds love, while Larson self-destructs. The adventure aboard the vessel is described in vivid detail, and the author clearly knows sailing. A wonderful story!

Since I have decided to dedicate part of my time spent reading in 2003 to the classics, I started first with The Mayor of Casterbridge, not the most famous of Hardy's works but seemingly a good place to start. I will definitely read the other works by this author since I was so captivated by this book.

The novel begins with the sale of Michael Henchard's wife and child to the highest bidder at a local summer fair. Henchard is drunk and his wife, tired of his habits, decides to leave with the sailor who bids on her and her daughter. Henchard wakes up the next morning, somewhat remorseful for what he has done and vows not to drink for twenty-one years.

The very next chapter picks up the story nineteen years later, with the return of the wife and child into Henchard's life. Henchard is now quite wealthy and is such an important man in his community, he is now Mayor of Casterbridge. From here, a series of wrong decisions and misunderstandings lead to the devastating conclusion.

Hardy is well known for his tendency towards gloomy endings and this book certainly fits the mold. But he is also well known for his lyrical descriptions of the English countryside and describing a way of life which had disappeared even in his own time. There were beautiful passages about the hay carts being driven through town, loaded so high that people on the second floor of homes could reach out and touch the top of the hay. Small details abound, describing the sound of rain on trees and the smell of the local foods. But perhaps the most significant aspect of the novel for me was the feeling that Henchard had wished for everything that had happened to him, and all of his wishes came true, and thus ultimately his downfall. These wishes were almost all made in a rash moment, when perhaps a minute or more of reflection could have produced a clearer head. Yet Henchard lives by his instincts, since for almost twenty years they seemed to serve him well.

I would recommend this book to any serious literature lover and I believe it serves as a good introduction to his other works. His books serve as a bridge from Victorian literature to modern literature, with no happy endings guaranteed.

I read this novel in English class, like most people probably did. It was one of the best assigned to us.

Hardy is a gifted author. He writes in a clear style with vivid descriptions that really bring the setting alive, without making the reader (at least this reader) feel inundated with borning, unnecessary detail.

The thing that I look for most in a novel, however, is quality characterizeations, and this book had them in spades. Dialogue was used effectively to flesh out characters. These are not stock characters, either. These people have flaws and shades of grey. They seem as though they could be real. I found that I could relate to the characters, and I did empathize with them, even when I didn't agree with their choices. Everyone had clear motivations. The characterization of Henchard shows that Hardy clearly understood the notion of the tragic flaw and the tragic hero/anti hero.

Students who have to read this book as part of their English class may find it a bit on the long side. I would urge you to stick with it; once you get through the initial chapters the book will pick up (a commonality that all British classics seem to share). The book is easy to follow and understand. It is a key novel that marks the shift from Romantic Age to the Victorian Age, so it's an important read for anyone who has a serious interest in English Literature.

At first I was forced to read "The Mayor of Casterbridge" in school more than 12 years ago. Reading it slowly made an impact on my life. This book always served a special purpose in my life. It introduced me to the wide world of Literature. It sort of enlighten my interest and liking for English literature. Now re-reading it not only brought back fond memories of my yester school days but also renewed my liking to one of the greatest writer of all time Thomas Hardy.

Through this novel I came to the understanding of Irony and oxymoron. Hardy totally wrote with a sense of awareness of human characteristic and he had a amazing style of mixed humour with tragedy.

His protagonist,Michael Henchard's life was under the microscope of Hardy.

I love the way the story began I quote:"ONE evening of late summer, before the nineteenth century had reached one-third of its span, a young man and woman, the latter carrying a child, were approaching the large village of Weydon-Priors, in Upper Wessex, on foot. " I love the Englishness and the sense of intriguing events that would follow...

In brief, Michael Henchard was a drunk who sold his wife and daughter at the fair. Later he realised his mistakes he work real hard and eventually became the mayor of Casterbridge. His life took another twist 20 years later when his wife and daughter came back to his life plus a few more other characters adding on the complexity of his life.Soonafter events unfolded and many things became to go against his way and then came his downfall. Indeed Michael Henchard's rise and fall were filled with compelling details and his encounters with numerous intestering people.

What I love most about this novel was the way Hardy depicted Henchard's behaviours and thoughts and totally enhanced his weak character and irresponsibleness with dashes of ironies. His sardonic literary style were brilliant and at the same time he also vividly described the scenery and situations. Another greatest of Hardy was his ability to create innovative characters still account for in modern contemporary days and he was a pioneer in analysising human's weakness and blended it into his creation. It's a vintage classic,psychoanalytic and intriguingly written ,a must read for all books lover.

I don't believe I've seen more than two of Mazursky's films but I enjoyed his book, especially the juicy chapter on his adventures with the increasingly more bizarre Peter Sellers. This is not a biography, but rather a series of essays about his involvement with different Hollywood people and some chapters about his current life and childhood. Recommended.

An interesting, light and witty Summer read that gives you insight into Mazursky's career and tales of movie production. Mazursky, born in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn started out as an actor (Blackboard Jungle), moved on to be a comedy writer (Danny Kaye, I Love You Alice B Toklas) when acting parts were infrequent, and made his directorial debut with Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice. My favorite scenes in the book? When a young Mazursky catches his zade eating his bubbe's herring on the afternoon of Yom Kippur; when Eisner and Katzenberg ask Mazursky if he thinks that the I.B. Singer story (Enemies, A Love Story) is too Jewish... maybe it can be about the Cambodian Holocaust instead of the WWII one; when Richard Dreyfus pulls out of the Enemies project; and the creation of Down&Out in Beverly Hills.

I loved reading this book, both from the standpoint of appreciating Paul Mazursky the director of many of my favorite films and reveling in Paul Mazursky the no-holds-barred storyteller. But--and, I'm sorry, there is a 'but'---why devote one sentence to the great Art Carney, who Mazursky calls the most pure actor he'd ever worked with, and then not tell the reader WHY he feels that way about Carney? There are no anecdotes to share about Jill Clayburgh or Robin Williams? Come on, Paul, give! This lapse is mostly compensated for by Mazursky's tales of traveling in the "then" Soviet Union and South America, his memories of working for Danny Kaye and his sharing the bitter and the sweet about his family, his friends and the ups and downs of his life. The chapter about Mazursky's relationship with his mother is especially powerful and a reminder that much of the pathos within even his funniest films came honestly to him. So, five stars for what's here---just would've liked to have seen more!

I read this book for a book report and I originally thought it sounded very interesting. I saw the book (it is MASSIVE, 886 pages) and I decided that I still wanted to read it. I began to read and it starts off very confusing and rocky.

The book is not funny, and not witty, it just has a smart theme. By the end you are pretty well caught up on characters, plot, etc. but it is grossly sad in a realistic kind of way and a big fat waste of time. If you are a scholar or interested in long books or origin/closer look of the behavioral sciences then this might be something you are interested but if you are on the fence about this book, my advice is get out of it while you still can!!!

When reading victorian fiction, with its prim and child-like heroines, I sometimes long for a story about someone who is neither long suffering or innocent. Vanity Fair is the perfect remedy. Becky Sharp probably is the wickedest woman in 19th century fiction and one of the most delightful. Whether facing uncertainties at the battle of Waterloo, or seeking a rich protector, or FINALLY marrying for money (this husband disappears before the money does), Becky is determined to have the kind of life with which she would like to become accustomed. This book is pure pleasure since the reader is always wondering "what is she going to do next." This book cannot be praised to highly.

Hilarious, scathing, wistful, beautiful.

Incredibly modern; the language is as fresh as if Thackeray had penned it yesterday.

A pure delight from beginning to end.

If you're one of those booklovers who reads as much as anthing else in order to get to know the author, in order to sit down and share a beer with him (or her) as it were, then this is your book.

You will come to adore Thackeray, to wish he were your best friend.

In short, if you love Henry Fielding's brand of humor and conversation with the reader in Tom Jones, then you will love Vanity Fair.

This Penguin edition features a brilliant introduction by John Carey, in which he draws comparisons between Vanity Fair and another sumpreme work of art: War and Peace.

In fact he argues that without Vanity Fair, there may never have been a War and Peace.

Ahh, Dobbin. A character that will live in my heart forever.

Eye for an Eye has an immature young man making rather a mess of his first entree into adult opportunities. The book is a jaunty, interesting run to a conclusion--a reminder that immature behavior by a young adult can have unforeseen consequences. Many of the devices of Trollope's comic novels are here, but they subserve a plot which resolves in a decidedly non-comic fashion. A light read, an interesting commentary, and a social frankness that does not seem at all old fashioned. Trollope was not always an ardent critic of his own social order, but he understood the problems, as this book shows in a non-preachy way.

I came across this book last summer when I was in Stratford, Ontario, attending their annual Shakespeare festival. I had just seen Henry V so this title caught my eye. A glance through the table of contents made me think this book might be a real eye-opener. Unfortunately, I ended up being a bit disappointed.

Sutherland and Watts take turns addressing what they call different "puzzles" in various Shakespearean plays. The problem is, except for the rare exception, most of these questions can be answered in various ways depending on how the play is performed. For example, is Malvolio vengeful or reconciled at the end of Twelfth Night? Or, does Bottom actually sleep with Titania in Midsummer Nights Dream? In both cases the ultimate answer is, it depends on how you play it. There is no one answer fixed in the text.

Even questions that seem like they should have a specific answer like, who killed Woodstock in Richard II?, are given waffling answers. There's simply no way to know. Again, the ultimate answer will lie in how the play is performed. Different companies will lead their audience to different answers depending on what they decide to focus.

Ultimately, this book has value in the sense that it points out what some of the issues are with various plays. On the other hand, the writing here is not very dynamic. The authors rarely take a position and, when they do, they approach it so weakly that they do not inspire a response in the reader. Perhaps the authors felt that they didn't want to provoke any controversy with their readers but, if they had, it might have made for a more readable book.

Shakespeare wrote plays that were to be seen only as performances before live audiences, running around two and a half hours, on a rather small stage. And he probably wrote pretty fast. Are the numerous inconsistencies (or apparent inconsistencies) one finds in the plays genuine errors of oversight, deliberate toying with the audience, unavoidable given the physical limitations of actors and stage, or part of some grand artistic design? For any given play, the answer can be any or all of the above.

The authors discuss about 30 such "glitches," and seem to derive most of their fun from summarizing how various Shakespearian commentators (few distinguished for intellect) have dealt with the glitches over the past 350 years. Sometimes, the authors appear to me to be deliberately obtuse about an issue, perhaps because they had some trouble finding as many as 30 genuinely puzzling glitches to comment upon.

One comment I have about the whole matter, which the authors do not make: Shakespeare's intellectual and artistic depths seem virtually boundless, and every seeming inconsistency might well have a reason for being other than carelessness or a schedule that didn't allow complete revision. The authors are aware of this, even when they don't state it explicitly.

Among the questions discussed: Why does Shakespeare's Henry V during the battle of Agincourt twice order all French prisoners to be slaughtered in cold blood, yet have "full fifteen hundred" prisoners "of good sort" left after the battle, not to mention a like number of "common men"?

Why does Juliet say, "Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore (why) art thou Romeo," when the problem is that he is a Montague? Why do so many of the plays end with nothing resolved, everything hanging in suspension? [Notorious examples are Troilus and Cressida, and Love's Labour's Lost. The answer here is probably, oh say can you see, a sequel being demanded by audiences.] How is Desdemona able to deliver several lines of dialogue after being strangled or smothered by Othello? How can King Lear be more than 80 and Juliet only 13? And so on.

Some of the answers were fairly obvious to me, although apparently not so to the authors. Juliet falls in love with Romeo when they are both in disguise, and it is the revelation that he is who he is that is upsetting. He could be referred to as Romeo, Romeo Montague, or Montague, and the sense would be the same. The action of Richard II would cover 30 years or so in real time, yet the performers would have looked the same and worn the same costumes throughout the play, so Shakespeare has the characters proclaim themselves as "lusty, young" in the early scenes, and having "worn so many winters out" in the last scenes. Further tipoff to this necessary compression is that where ever the dialogue would naturally refer to "years," it instead refers to "minutes" and "hours." As the authors put it, Shakespeare has invented "Warp Time."

The book is a great pleasure to read, and will greatly deepen your knowledge of Shakespearean drama, and your viewing of any Shakespearean film. Highly recommended.