It's sloppy, repetitive and even silly, but DH Lawrence's novel – our current Reading group pick – harbours passages of remarkable force and power in among the dross
We've already developed quite a rap sheet against Lawrence here on the Reading group, and to that growing list, now I'm a healthy 300-odd pages in, I can also add being silly, tedious and sloppy.
To explain the first charge, I can cite Paul's endlessly repeated feelings of "hate" for Miriam, his wish that she didn't make him "spiritual", the "delicious delirium in his veins", the talk of his artistic soul, and (as Reading group contributor vernacula pointed out), his habit of deeply sniffing flowers. I can also quote the following:
"She felt the accuracy with which he caught her, exactly at the right moment, and the exactly proportionate strength of his thrust, and she was afraid. Down to her bowels went the hot wave of fear. She was in his hands. Again, firm and inevitable came the thrust at the right moment. She gripped the rope, almost swooning."
That's a description of Paul pushing Miriam on a rope swing. Steady on!
For the second, I can moan about how often I've set the book down in despair, and about how much of a trudge it is. I can complain of the drudgery. That humourless striving for passion, that cold talk of "fire". That endless mithering, and picking at the same wound ...
Those two are matters of opinion, I know. Some people love this book and will quite rightly disagree with me. There are also mitigating factors. We are told Lawrence's raw, red-lipped (he's always talking about red lips!) sensuality, was something new in 1913. I have also frequently read that there was something revolutionary about his attempt to give an emotional account of Paul – to get so deep inside the heart and mind of a working-class man. Most importantly, there was something new in that he was a working-class man writing about a working-class man. Which is true. So long as we forget that Charles Dickens ever existed. But I do accept that Lawrence was treading new ground, pushing the novel into places it hadn't been before. Perhaps the fact that we can laugh at that swing scene now shows how effective his influence has been.
The charge of sloppiness, however, still stands. Is it acceptable, for instance, for Lawrence to spend 100-odd dull pages outlining apparently every detail about the workings of Miriam's family, only to announce out of the blue:
"She had an elder sister Agatha, who was a schoolteacher. Between the two girls there was a feud. Miriam considered Agatha worldly. And she wanted herself to be a schoolteacher."
Why, in fact, does Agatha wander on to the scene at all? She lasts all of three paragraphs before Lawrence is done with her forever.
Lawrence even makes similar bizarre, tangential announcements within the space of one paragraph: "Annie, who had been teaching away, was at home again. She was still a tomboy; and she was engaged to be married. Paul was studying design."
Was he? Where did that information come from? Why put it there? While I'm asking questions, why does Miriam so inevitably go on holiday with Paul's family, if they all hate her so much? Or at least, why isn't this explained?
It would be possible to pick the novel apart in this manner for pages and pages. Sons and Lovers has, as Ford Madox Ford famously said of The White Peacock, "every fault that the English novel can have". As Lawrence tells the story, Ford shouted that remark to him on a London bus. He added: "But, you've got genius."
In spite of everything, I have to agree with Ford. In among the dross there are revelations, there are magnificent descriptions, there is writing of remarkable force and power. Lawrence does have something special. To explain what, exactly, is hard – but fortunately I am spared the task. This week I was alerted to a wonderful piece of criticism of a Lawrence short story, written by the great Ford Madox Ford himself.
First of all Ford explains why Odour of Chrysanthemums is such a good title, and then he gets stuck into the first paragraph. Here he is:
"At once you read: 'The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from Selston,' and at once you know that this fellow with the power of observation is going to write of whatever he writes about from the inside. 'Number 4' shows that. He will be the sort of fellow who knows that for the sort of people who work about engines, engines have a sort of individuality. He had to give the engine the personality of a number … 'With seven full wagons' … The 'seven' is good. The ordinary careless writer would say 'some small wagons'. This man knows what he wants. He sees the scene of his story exactly. He has an authoritative mind.
"It appeared round the corner with loud threats of speed' … Good writing; slightly, but not too arresting … 'But the colt that it startled from among the gorse … outdistanced it at a canter.' Good again. This fellow does not 'state'. He doesn't say: 'It was coming slowly', or – what would have been little better – 'at seven miles an hour'. Because even 'seven miles an hour' means nothing definite for the untrained mind. It might mean something for a trainer of pedestrian racers. The imaginative writer writes for all humanity; he does not limit his desired readers to specialists … but anyone knows that an engine that makes a great deal of noise and yet cannot overtake a colt at a canter must be a ludicrously ineffective machine. We know then that this fellow knows his job."
Ford continues like this for another couple of hundred words, using his own wonderful eye for detail to explain why Lawrence is so good. I'd urge you to read it all. I felt almost embarrassed, by the end, that I missed so much in the quoted passage – but also elated. It helped me see Lawrence with new, better eyes. There are dozens of passages of similar – apparently effortless – quality in Sons and Lovers. My opinion of the book remains the same. It stinks. It's a bad novel. But it is one written by a very good writer.
Next week, we'll no doubt talk some more about Lawrence's good and bad qualities. We are also very fortunate that Lawrence expert Geoff Dyer has agreed to do a Q&A session with us on Friday 28 June at 1pm, so keep your calendar free.
In the meantime, there are still eight unclaimed copies of Sons and Lovers to give away. It's worth owning – and definitely worth reading, no matter what I say. So the next eight people to leave an opinion on Lawrence, or something related, and request a copy will get one. So long as they're based in the UK and remember to email in to ginny.hooker@guardian.co.uk afterwards. We can't track you down ourselves!
via Books: Fiction | guardian.co.uk
0 comments:
Post a Comment