In Hardy's novels, various impulses were sacrificed to
each other inevitably and often. Inevitably, because Hardy
did not care in the way that novelists such as
Flaubert or James cared, and therefore took paths of least
resistance. Thus, one impulse often surrendered to a
fresher one and, unfortunately, instead of exacting a
compromise, simply disappeared. A desire to throw over
reality a light that never was might give way abruptly to
the desire on the part of what we might consider a
novelist-scientist to record exactly and concretely the
structure and texture of a flower. In this instance, the new
impulse was at least an energetic one, and thus its
indulgence did not result in a relaxed style. But on other
occasions Hardy abandoned a perilous, risky, and highly
energizing impulse in favor of what was for him the
fatally relaxing impulse to classify and schematize
abstractly. When a relaxing impulse was indulged, the
style—that sure index of an author's literary worth—was
certain to become verbose.