My publisher and I and Janet Kenny, have been discussing yesterday's 60th birthday of Tim in the context of Hardy's first book. Thought I'd bump this thread:
I got a cute birthday message from a friend, about to celebrate her 75th, in Australia: "Timmy, think of Hardy! At sixty he was just getting started." The Times reviewed his first collection that year: "Mr. Hardy should spare himself embarrassment and confine himself to the novel." A growing number of good poets now regard him as the greatest lyric poet in English, and why? Not for his seamless meters or contemporary diction, God knows. It's for his earthiness, his profound empathy for the people of his countryside. Mr. Warren insisted I pay closer attention to him than anyone, and my father said the same. It took a long time for me to grow my way into a full comprehension of Hardy and Frost, whose virtues are shared virtues. I just wasn't ready until I lost my ass farming.
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