osprey_archer | Book Review: Lady Chatterly's Lover

I finished Lady Chatterly's Lover, and I have such mixed feelings about this book, you guys.

The writing is beautiful; the nature descriptions, in particular, are gorgeous. D. H. Lawrence was also a poet, and you can tell.

When I was in high school we read one of his poems in poetry class, the one about the snake, and my poetry teacher had to explain to us that the snake was totally a metaphorical penis. At the time I sort of thought that was reaching, but now that I've read Lady Chatterly's Lover I think it's probably accurate. Everything is penises with Lawrence.

In fact, I think he was more or less serious when he talks about "the phallus as a bridge to the future" (for all that he gives that line to a blowhard): sexual pleasure is the path to the future, the way out of the sterile and ugly industrialized present that has alienated us from our true instinctual selves, and the penis is the only instrument of sexual pleasure that Lawrence recognizes. It does not once occur to anyone, for instance, that Connie's husband Sir Clifford might try using any of his other appendages to rekindle their sex life.

Sir Clifford became impotent following a war wound that left him paralyzed from the waist down, and now he puffs around the estate in a little motorized wheelchair.

evelyn_b and I were both so taken by the chair that we ended up plotting a picture book of its future life, after the scene where Sir Clifford breaks the chair by trying to force it up an incline to steep for it. (The chair gets taken in by a collier whose daughter needs a wheelchair, and she learns how to repair it herself, and at last the chair is loved and appreciated as it deserves. We thought someone in the book ought to have a happy ending.)

But now that I've finished the book, I don't think Lawrence ever noticed that the chair had any adorable qualities. I think he sees it as rather sinister, an avatar of industrialization, this little chair with its little engine that puffs along where Sir Clifford's legs should be. Sir Clifford physically embodies what Lawrence considers the modern spiritual condition, an unholy grafting of man and machine created by industrialization that makes us all metaphorically impotent, alienated from our instincts, and sensually dead.

But at least Lawrence shows some interest in Sir Clifford; that's more than Connie's lover Mellors' wife ever gets. She shows up like a bad penny at the end of the book to either get her husband back or ruin his life by spreading stories about the grotesque sexual practices he forced upon her during their marriage.

We never actually meet the woman, but Connie hears about her accusations thirdhand from Clifford's nurse, who is of the opinion that 1) Mellors' wife is a known hussy who is obviously lying, and 2) even if she's not lying, she was his wife, wasn't she, and what's it to anyone else if a man takes his pleasure from his wife?

Holy rape culture, Batman.

And as if I hadn't already had plenty of misgivings about Connie's plan to marry this man. Sure, it's all fun and games now when she barely ever sees him, but what's it going to be like when she lives with his moroseness all the time and must constantly cope with all his many issues with women, which he has outlined for her already in some detail?

This all is sounding less and less like mixed feelings and more like a condemnation of the book. I suppose the writing rather blinded me while I was reading?

And I think this is also very much a case where Lawrence was writing something daring and avant garde for his time - it wasn't published in full until thirty years later - and, as often happens when people try to shuck off the old morality and cut a new one from whole cloth, Lawrence sometimes ends up standing there in the emperor's new clothes.