Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge is the exact opposite of Vendela Vida’s The Lovers. It’s an old classic. It’s very much written like other serial page-turning literature like Charles Dickens. And it’s GOOD. So good. It’s been a while since I’ve read classic literature and I’ve realized I need to do more of it. It takes a couple of chapters to get into the writing, but once you do, you’re stuck in that world. There’s a reason why this is considered a great novel. You can’t find this type of twisted, smart plot in fiction these days. Plus I really got into the characters. They were well-developed with distinct voices. I liked that Hardy was true to his depiction of the main character’s hubris from start to finish. The ending was exactly the way it should have been, instead of the readers scratching our heads on how the ending can veer so far form the plot–which so often happens in modern fiction. I started the book on our flight to Austin and almost finished it on the way back, but needed another week. I’m thinking of picking another classic when it’s my turn.