The (Fourth) First Impression

I stumbled across some Thomas Hardy the other day (British writer extraordinaire) and it suddenly occurred to me: maybe my negative first impressions of people are unfounded. For those of who don't know, Thomas Hardy's writing is perhaps the most miserable body of work in existence. Not only is it beautifully written, but it's also the root cause of hereditary clinical depression. If you find yourself depressed and have never read a word of Hardy, you can rest assured that someone has, somewhere in your lineage. There I was, painfully reading through select poems, and after removing my finger nails and gnashing my teeth to a fine powder, I got to thinking about the essence of Thomas Hardy, more precisely (or vaguely) people in general. The simplest description of Hardy's view of the world is one of hopelessness, of forlorn regret, and a general skepticism of everything mankind has created. But what does that say for Hardy himself? I'm willing to assume that he didn't walk the streets with black eyeliner and nailpolish, brooding and mumbling to himself. But surely he must have known that he'd be remembered not for his daily life, but for the writings that he left behind. Those writings just so happen to be utterly despairing. Would he feel satisfied with the general assessment of him as the world's largest literary pessimist? Something tells me otherwise.

Ironically enough, I've reassessed my opinions of first impressions. If any of you readers had been exposed to this page during my sonnet-obsession phase, you'd have thought me to be a poetry-loving fairy. Thankfully this isn't the case, but I never really put much thought to that - until now. Writing in particular (and I suppose any means of art) lends itself to forcing very particular first impressions upon the people who come across it. If this is your first time reading an entry of mine, you might very well feel me to be a rambling fool. If this is your twentieth time reading an entry of mine, you might very well feel me to be a rambling fool. Thomas Hardy deserves to be remembered for more than his depression-inducing coma poetry, but history simply doesn't allow it to happen. We then have to take our destiny into our own hands, but don't get me wrong, by no means am I saying that we should all cater to our self-images. This post is just a mere example of who, or what, I am. Next week, next year, and every post in between is but one more example. There's nothing I can do to prevent you from forming your impression of me and my ideas, but it's a rather frightening prospect that we only get one chance to make such an impression. If I never read another Hardy poem, I'm admitting that I'm satisfied with my view of him. Is that really fair? Something tells me otherwise.

To be perfectly honest, this epiphany of mine probably won't change a damn thing in my life. I'll continue living, driving behind ignorant jerks who view the speed limit as a ceiling they should never reach. I'll regard my paper guy has a lonely soul who lives in an apartment with seventeen cats, although I appreciate his punctual service. Some things just don't have the propensity to change, although I'm sure they deserve the opportunity. Maybe that's what Thomas Hardy has going for him (other than a chipper disposition) - a background that can actually be taught, a chance to shed a little light on the fact that he's not a depressed madman. My paper guy, on the other hand, isn't so lucky. He can't inform the world that he's more than an eerie pair of headlights at four in the morning. It's a shame. But then again, maybe it's arrogant of me to assume that he should need such a chance. That could very well be the problem with humankind. No one should feel the need to explain themselves when some misinformed fool (like myself) assumes you cut me off because your IQ equals that of an orange. But, that's the sad truth; we're a judgmental lot, and whether you think so or not, we're all guilty. I'm not sure a concentrated effort to see through the most obvious of idiosyncracies would work at all, one wouldn't think so. In summation, I suppose I'm shooting to be in the position of Hardy - one where the doors remain open, although just barely, on the truest essence of the man himself, not a solitary poem he wrote in 1900, but of the reasons he wrote it, the thoughts he had, the people he loved, the people he hated. We all deserve an equal opportunity at history; whether or not we take it is entirely up to us. The odds are stacked against me, and I might very well fail. But something tells me otherwise.