Chapter 13 On Day H Lawrence

Perhaps the best defense against the bias and inevitable imperfection of contemporary criticism is to first admit, so far as it is possible to realize, one's incompetence.Therefore, as a preface to the review of De H. Lawrence, the author of this article has to declare that until April 1931, her knowledge of Lawrence was limited to what she had heard about Lawrence, and she had almost no personal experience.His reputation as a prophet, expounder of mystical theories of sexuality, lover of cryptic jargon, inventor of a new terminology free from words like "solar plexus" is not attractive. ; to follow him obediently seems an unthinkable escapade; and as it happens, the few (parts) of his works published under the dark cloud of this ugly reputation do not seem to arouse strong curiosity, Or dispel that lurid apparition.First there was The Criminal, which seemed to be a passionate, fragrant, overwrought work; What clear impressions; followed by The Lost Girl, a fat and sailor's book, full of Bennettian careful observations; followed by a very beautiful sketch or two on Italian travel, But fragmented and incoherent; and then two little collections of poems, "Nettles" and "The Nettles," read like the kind boys scribbled on gates and maids would jump up and laugh at. words.

During this period the praises of the worshipers in Lawrence's sanctuary became more fanatical; their incense was more vigorous, and their whirling worship more mysterious and bewildering.His death last year gave them greater liberty and greater motivation; The solemn remembrance of those devout and the gossip of startled opponents led one at last to read "Sons and Lovers" in order to see whether, as so often happens, the master, with the distorted descriptions of his disciples, Not all that different. It is from such a perspective that I study Lawrence.You will find that it is this angle that rejects many points of view and distorts others.Read from this angle, however, Sons and Lovers seem surprisingly vivid, like an island emerging from the fog after it has suddenly cleared.Here it is, sharp, resolute, consummate, rock-solid; given form and proportion by a man who, no doubt, was the son of a miner born and raised in Nottingham, whether he might What other identities—prophets or villains.But this solidity, clarity, this admirable simplicity and sharpness are not rare qualities in an age of effective novelists.Lawrence's clear, fluent, unhurried, powerful style of writing, with just the right amount of words, shows that he has an extraordinary mind and a profound insight.These impressions, however, after showing the life of the Morels, their kitchens, meals, sinks, and ways of speaking, are replaced by another, rarer and far greater interest.At first we marvel at how alive this colorful, three-dimensional representation of life is—like the bird pecking at the cherry in that picture—and later, from some ineffable brilliance, melancholy, And in meaning, we feel, that room is neatly organized.Someone tidied it up before we entered the house.The arrangement seemed reasonable and natural, as if we had opened the door and stepped in by chance, and some astonishingly insightful eye and powerful hand had swiftly adjusted the whole scene to make it all the more exhilarating, moving, In a sense more alive than we can imagine real life, like a painter pulling up a green curtain as a background, against which the leaves, tulips, or vases stand out sharply.What was that green curtain that Lawrence had pulled up to accentuate those colours?You can't catch Lawrence when he's "arrangement" - one of his greatest qualities.Words and scenes poured out quickly and directly, as if he only had to use a free and agile hand to trace them on page after page of manuscript paper.Not a sentence seems to be thought over; not a word is added for its effect in the phrase structure.There's no arrangement that would make us say, "Look here. In this scene and in this conversation, there's a hidden meaning to this book." One of the strange qualities of Sons and Lovers is that you feel a sense of urgency between the lines. A restlessness, a slight trembling and flickering, as if it were composed of scattered glittering objects, which were never content to stand still and be looked at.Of course, there is a scene, there is a character; yes, people are connected to each other by a web of emotions; and exist.They do not stretch and explore, nor do they contain in themselves the sense of ecstasy for ecstasy's sake, as we might sit in front of the famous hawthorn hedge in "Swan's Way" and look at it.No, there is always something further, another further goal.That urgent longing, that need to go beyond the goal before us, seems to condense, abbreviate, and reduce various situations to the simplest and clearest point, and let the characters flash before us directly and nakedly.We cannot watch for more than a second, and we must rush forward.But to what end?

Towards a situation, perhaps, that has little to do with the usual pauses, climaxes, and happy endings of character, story, or fiction in general.The only thing his work offers us, to perch on it, to stretch out, to feel to the best of our ability, is some carnal orgy.This is true, for example, of the scene where Paul and Miriam let loose in the barn.Their bodies became white-hot, blazing and meaningful, as in other books a description of an emotional event can be so hot and burning.For the author, it seems that the scene has a transcendental meaning.The meaning is not in the talk, or the story, or death, or love, but it is when the boy's body rocks in the barn.

But, perhaps because such a state of affairs cannot always be satisfactory, and perhaps because Lawrence lacks the final strength to make things whole in themselves, the effect of the book never reaches a steady state. The world in the book "Sons and Lovers" is always in the process of cohesion and disintegration.The magnet that tried to draw together the different parts that made up this beautiful, living world of Nottingham was this fiery body, this spark of beauty that blazed in the flesh, this intense, burning light.Therefore, whatever is unfolded before us seems to have a moment of its own.Nothing sits there securely to be watched.All things are drawn away by some unsatisfied longing, some higher beauty, desire or possibility.Therefore, this book excites, stimulates, moves, and changes us, and seems to be full of some suppressed excitement, anxiety, and desire, just like the body of the hero.The whole world--which was a testament to the writer's superior power--was shattered and shaken by the magnet of the boy; he could not put the separate parts together into a whole that would satisfy him.

This, at least in part, can have a simple explanation.Paul Morel, like Lawrence himself, was the son of a miner.He is dissatisfied with his surroundings.One of the first things he did after selling a picture was to buy an evening dress.He is not, like Proust, a member of a stable, contented social group.He longs to leave his own class and enter another.He believed the middle class had something he didn't.He was too honest by nature to be satisfied with his mother's argument; she believed that ordinary people were better than the middle class because they had more vitality.The middle class, Lawrence felt, had an ideal, or something else he wished he had.This was one of the reasons for his uneasiness.And this is extremely important.For the fact that he, like Paul, was the son of a miner, and he didn't like his surroundings, made him write differently than those who had a stable position and appreciated their surroundings, their superiority. Conditions allow them to forget about the pressures of those circumstances.

Lawrence draws a strong drive from his parentage.It places his gaze at an angle from which it acquires some of its most striking characteristics.He never looks back, or sees things as rare examples of human psychology, nor is he interested in literature for its own sake.Everything has a use, a meaning, not an end in itself.Comparing him with Proust, you feel that he agrees with no one, inherits no tradition, ignores the past, and ignores the present unless it affects the future.As a writer, this lack of tradition affected him enormously.Thoughts burst into his head directly, and words shot out, round, solid, crisp, like drops of water splashing in all directions when a stone is thrown into water.You feel that no word has been chosen for its own beauty or for its effect on the structure of the sentence.