Posts Tagged ‘marriage’

As it is, this collection wasn’t put together in Lawrence’s lifetime. Three of them were published together, with one of those having been previously published in a periodical. This group of three is from the early 1920s, around the time of Aaron’s Rod, Kangaroo, and Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious. The fourth story is from the very end of his career, after Lady Chatterley, at the time of The Virgin and the Gipsy. These are all love stories, but as one might expect from Lawrence, they’re all a little unusual.

LOVE AMONG THE HAYSTACKS

This is the one from the end of his life, but it really feels a lot more similar to his earlier work focusing on the lives, loves, and opportunities of the rural poor. Maurice is young and in love with the vicar’s young foreign governess. It seems a little miraculous, because there are not many young people in the area, and he and his brothers haven’t had much romantic experience. His older brother Geoffrey is jealous and surly – not because he wants this woman, but because he wants a woman. As they’re harvesting hay, they meet a homeless man and his unhappy wife. That night, Maurice stays in the field to guard the hay, and his Polish lady comes to him. When it starts to rain, she helps him cover the hay, but at the top of one of the stacks the ladder falls down and they’re stuck there all night. Geoffrey comes round to help cover the hay and sees what happened. He covers the hay himself and leaves them to it. The unhappy woman from earlier pops by looking for her worthless husband, and Geoffrey comforts her. By the morning, he has plans to run off to Canada with her, and Maurice and his girlfriend are not as pleased with each other as they had been.

So yes, sex means different things to different people, and at different times. For Maurice and Paula it seems like a disappointment. They are all impatient to make it happen, but afterward they’re bickering and unpeaceful. For Geoffrey and Lydia, it solidifies their feelings for each other and gives them motivation to press forward, even though there are some substantial obstacles to their being together. I know that we euphemize the activity as making love, but it seems to prove and strengthen love, not create it. I suppose I’m supposed to be shocked at the fact that Lydia cheats on her husband and then leaves him, but that’s not content that shocks me any more. A man can’t marry a woman and assume he’s done his part. Relationships bring expectations, and there’s no reason for her to stay with someone she can’t love.

THE LADYBIRD

In the United States we call the titular insect a ladybug, as if it was somehow perturbaceous. The ladybird in the story is on the family crest of a German officer in a prison hospital in England during World War I. He sometimes uses it as a symbol for himself. The protagonist is a young woman he knew before the war; they met while she was on holiday with her parents. Now she’s married to a young officer believed to be dead, and she learns that her old friend is being held close by. He’s a little firecracker, not very tall but very passionate about his feelings and the sense of isolation. Daphne is his only connection to the happy life he knew before the Great War – he had given her a thimble with a ladybird on it as a keepsake. She doesn’t really like him, but she feels drawn to him in a way she can’t describe to herself. There’s something indefinably sexy about this fiery little German, and even though she keeps thinking she’ll stay away, she keeps coming back.

Then, of course, her husband isn’t dead after all. Basil comes back and he’s all light and conformity where Count Dionys is all darkness and rebellion. After a few nights Basil realizes he’s no longer interested in sex. It’s not that big a deal since they have separate bedrooms anyway (tradition in wealthier English families – I hope they’ve given it up). So when they invite the German count to stay with them before his return to the Continent, it’s easy for her to sneak into his room at night. There’s a lot of social pressure for Daphne to be with Basil – he’s the right sort of husband, socially speaking – but I think that in a different society, one where women were free to be themselves and choose for themselves, she would have chosen the Count, and not just at night.

She never saw him as a lover. When she saw him, he was the little officer, a prisoner, quiet, claiming nothing in all the world. And when she went to him as his lover, his wife, it was always dark. She only knew his voice and his contact in darkness. “My wife in darkness,” he said to her. And in this too she believed him. She would not have contradicted him, no, not for anything on earth: lest, contradicting him she should lose the dark treasure of stillness and bliss which she kept in her breast even when her heart was wrung with the agony of knowing he must go.

No, she had found this wonderful thing after she had heard him singing: she had suddenly collapsed away from her old self into this darkness, this peace, this quiescence that was like a full dark river flowing eternally in her soul. She had gone to sleep from the nuit blanche of her days. And Basil, wonderful, had changed almost at once. She feared him, lest he might change back again. She would always have him to fear. But deep inside her she only feared for this love of hers for the Count: this dark, everlasting love that was like a full river flowing for ever inside her. Ah, let that not be broken.

THE FOX

This is the one that was published in a magazine, which I find sort of odd because it’s the one that takes on LGBT issues the most obviously. March and Banford are two women who live on a farm during the war. Their farm isn’t super productive, either because gay relationships don’t lead to childbirth and are thus sterile or because they’re not that great at farming. They end up focusing on chickens, which still isn’t that successful because there’s a fox that keeps stealing hens. March sees him once and is shocked into stillness, like that Annie Dillard piece about weasels. Winter is hard on animals, so I don’t really begrudge him the chickens, but then again, they’re not my chickens. Banford is furious about it. She may also be angry that the situation is out of her control; she tends to the house (the traditional women’s work) so she isn’t the one with the gun. March is the more masculine of the two (because even gay relationships have to conform to heterosexual norms), but after staring into the fox’s eyes she can’t kill it.

That was the symbol. The rest of the story is the reality. At war’s end the soldiers are coming home, and one of them wanders into their house. He had lived there with his grandfather before the war, and something vague and unimportant (probably death) led to the women renting the place. He’s young and handy – he even kills the fox for them. But he himself is the fox in this henhouse. Something about March’s defiance of gender roles draws him in. I wonder about him being closeted himself because he’s turned off when he sees her in a dress. He likes March to be mannish, and to be March instead of Nell. Even though he’s much younger, he talks her into marriage, which she of course breaks off once he’s out of the house.

I don’t see on what grounds I am going to marry you. I know I am not head over heels in love with you, as I have fancied myself to be with fellows when I was a young fool of a girl. You are an absolute stranger to me, and it seems to me as if you will always be one. So on what grounds am I going to marry you? When I think of Jill, she is ten times more real to me. I know her and I’m awfully fond of her, and I hate myself for a beast if I ever hurt her little finger. We have a life together. And even if it can’t last for ever, it is a life while it does last. And it might last as long as either of us lives. Who knows how long we’ve got to live? She is a delicate little thing, perhaps nobody but me knows how delicate. And as for me, I feel I might fall down the well any day. What I don’t seem to see at all is you. When I think of what I’ve been and what I’ve done with you, I’m afraid I am a few screws loose. I should be sorry to think that softening of the brain is setting in so soon, but that is what it seems like. You are such an absolute stranger, and so different from what I’m used to, and we don’t seem to have a thing in common. As for love, the very word seems impossible. I know what love means even in Jill’s case, and I know that in this affair with you it’s an absolute impossibility.

So of course he decides to kill one lesbian so he can marry the other. Men can be so depressing and predictable.

Most relationships have to deal with some jealousy at some point. We don’t put our eyes out when we tell someone we love them, and I’m sure even blind people’s eyes wander metaphorically. Jill Banford’s approach, to try to control the situation, is normal, natural, and ineffective. Telling someone what to do and how to interact with others seldom feels like love. That type of fear-based behavior can actually become abusive. But when someone decides you have to die, it’s normal and natural not to like them.

I feel sorry for March, because she has a choice between two people who want to control her and doesn’t see a third option for herself. The soldier boy is the poorer choice, what with the violence and the demand for her to be only a part of herself. One could argue that Banford is the same, but the condition on Banford’s love is that she be loved in return, not that March actively deny a large part of her identity and put up with the death of her lover.

The hetero love story here is really weird and powerfully fucked up. As love often is. But we do see some happiness for March and Banford, so the story isn’t unrelentingly sad. As with so many stories about foxes, it’s a warning. Not that lesbians shouldn’t reject male suitors, they absolutely should, but it’s wise for everyone to be vigilant about people on the edge of violence. Appeasement is a dangerous habit.

THE CAPTAIN’S DOLL

A Scottish captain is stationed in Germany, after the danger of the War has past. He’s sleeping with a local countess who makes dolls to earn her living. She makes one that is obviously him, the military coat and the plaid trousers and everything, and then his wife comes to visit and sees it. The Countess, Hannele, is mystified by their attitude toward sex, that sexual monogamy is insignificant. What matters is the emotions behind it. They can sleep with anyone they want so long as their actual love is only directed at each other. He doesn’t seem to love much of anyone, or at least not very strongly, so it’s of little moment to him, but it’s a big deal to Hannele. She’s not used to this idea, that his soul belongs to his wife but his penis is his own to do with as he likes, and she doesn’t like the situation it puts her in. She thinks that sex means something, and that the fact that he’s fucking her means he cares about her. The situation becomes a little too well known, so of course the wife takes him away. Fucking another woman is fine, but doing it indiscreetly is not. But Hannele won’t sell her the doll.

Years later, the wife dies and the captain comes back to Germany, desultorily looking for Hannele. Instead, he finds a still life painting of his doll. Suddenly the doll becomes this intense symbol of everything that he can’t handle about relationships; he sees women as making men into dolls, homunculi they can pose and speak for at tea parties. He doesn’t feel like a human when he’s in a relationship with a woman. I think that men can be equally guilty of creating an image of the beloved in our minds and forcing women to live up to the image; part of the captain’s anger is that he’s being treated the way men treat women. And then, of course, she had sold the doll after all, to a stranger. The shoe is on the other foot now – he thought he meant something to her, but she moved on. No promises of eternal love and fidelity to a man who treated her like shit.

He starts to pursue her with some of that intensity we saw in The Fox; he only wants a woman when she doesn’t want him, apparently. I know that this happens, and is even pretty common, that people go after those who are unavailable to them. I’ve heard it said that men want the challenge, but I think there’s more to it than that. People (not just men) take rejection as a sign that they’re not good enough, as if we all existed on a scale from one to ten and it was easy to say that one person is a two and another is a nine. Everyone wants to believe that they’re a ten, but getting rejected by a seven means that we’re obviously a six or less. We don’t pursue the seven because they represent a challenge in itself; we pursue the seven to prove to ourselves that we are a seven or higher. Basing one’s self-esteem on the esteem of others (particularly their interest in sharing genital contact) is absolutely ridiculous and leads to these absurd and dangerous situations. Lawrence’s stalkers and murderers need to learn how to love themselves apart from their ability to fuck any woman they want.

Women have the right to choose whom and when to fuck. They are the keepers of their own vaginas. They guard the access. Men who behave otherwise tend toward abuse and possibly violence. It’s certainly a misogynistic attitude, and it implies that the man who holds it is not ready for an adult relationship.

“Oh, that eternal doll! What makes it stick so in your mind?”

“I don’t know. But there it is. It wasn’t malicious. It was flattering, if you like. But it just sticks in me like a thorn: like a thorn. And there it is, in the world, in Germany somewhere. And you can say what you like, but any woman, today, no matter how much she loves her man – she could start any minute and make a doll of him. And the doll would be her hero: and her hero would be no more than her doll. My wife might have done it. She did do it, in her mind. She had her doll of me right enough. Why I heard her talk about me to other women. And her doll was a great deal sillier than the one you made. But it’s all the same. If a woman loves you, she’ll make a doll out of you. She’ll never be satisfied till she’s made your doll. And when she’s got your doll, that’s all she wants. And that’s what love means. And so, I won’t be loved. And I won’t love. I won’t have anybody loving me. It is an insult. I feel I’ve been insulted for forty years: by love, and the women who’ve loved me. I won’t be loved. And I won’t love. I’ll be honoured and I’ll be obeyed: or nothing.”

“Then it’ll most probably be nothing,” said Hannele sarcastically. “For I assure you I’ve nothing but love to offer.”

He’s upset, yes, and probably still sexy in his sixties (he is Scottish, after all), but he’s also wrong and ridiculous. Imagine the gall of a woman, to treat a man the same way he’s treated her. Men have robbed women of their humanity, their opportunities to express and be themselves, their right to make their own choices about their bodies, for too much of Western history. A hundred years ago men don’t seem to have been accustomed to recognize that fact. I feel like these three post-World War I stories could have been called Love Amid the Patriarchy. It places Lawrence in kind of an awkward position: some critics will say he’s doing it on purpose to reveal how harmful the patriarchy is, but some will say he’s doing it unconsciously because he’s really on the verge of being a murdering stalker himself. He just found a woman he wanted who wanted him back, so the violence is unnecessary. It’d be great if we could revive him long enough to ask him which.

In any event, all four of these stories are about love and its problems. The soldiers who returned from the war brought with them a set of attitudes that clearly harmed women, and the women themselves are complex, interesting people who deserve love and respect, even if they don’t know how to demand it. Lawrence’s vote is clearly on the side of sexual license, so long as both partners agree to it. His stories demonstrate the importance of talking plainly about sex and what it means. Partners should understand what it means to the other and be willing to accept the burden of expectation it creates, whether the expectation is to go about one’s business like it meant nothing or to be involved with the partner for the rest of one’s life. Being of the same religion, or ethnicity, or orientation, is no guarantee that two people will have the same attitude about sex. You have to talk about it.

Lawrence’s politics are sometimes upsetting, but his language is exquisite. I’ll probably always enjoy his writing, misogynistic and proto-Fascist as it was. These stories are very much in his vein, so whether you like them or not, whether you should read them or not, really depends on how you feel about him. They’re all good examples of what he does, representative pieces of the man. I enjoy them, but you’ll have to make your own choice on that subject.

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There are few American authors of her time who write about divorce as much as Edith Wharton. I guess she wrote about it so much because she had one; also, it was a major subject of debate in the conversations about women’s rights. So of course I’ve been thinking about mine. It was the most emotionally difficult part of my life, particularly with all of the people assuming I wouldn’t care. It’s a complicated thing, being a gay man who loves his wife, because love is even more complex than sexuality. One more reason for me to have run off to the Middle East.

The stories in this volume are arranged according to length rather than publishing date or theme or any other logical system. All were originally published between 1900 and 1914.

ETHAN FROME

Like me, Ethan Frome is a man who got married in a hurry and ran into trouble because of it. He got a little bit of education and dreamed of living in a city, but then his father got sick and he had to come take care of the family farm, and then after his father died his mother got sick too. His family arranged for a distant cousin Zenobia to come take care of his mother and the house. When you see a woman named Zenobia in a book written in the nineteenth century or the first couple of decades of the twentieth, she’s probably dangerous. It’s like how we don’t trust Victorian Lydias. Zeena cared for Ethan’s mother through her final illness, and then he had this weird emotional spasm where he couldn’t lose anyone else, so he married her.

Fast forward six or seven years. Zeena has become a hypochondriac invalid, and Ethan has realized that he’s never moving to a city while he’s stuck with her. Besides, at thirty-five she’s starting to age badly (rural Massachusetts winters are rough), and he’s still twenty-eight and in his youth and vigor. Zeena has taken on Mattie Silver, another distant cousin with no place to go. Mattie’s young and exciting, and draws Ethan into the life of the town because she enjoys being with people and he has to escort her. Ethan and Mattie are in love, but at a distance in the same house. When he feels affectionate, he shortens her name further to just Matt, so I derived a lot of enjoyment from picturing Matt as a man.

Zeena’s concocted a plot to get rid of Matt, even though she literally has no one to take her in. Her only hope is to get a job in a shop somewhere and earn her own living, which isn’t easy for a twenty-one-year-old girl in Massachusetts in the 18-somethings. Ethan goes through an intense time – he wants to run off with Matt and go live out West somewhere, but he doesn’t have the money to go anywhere. As with me, poverty keeps him from divorcing when and how he wants. He doesn’t have anything worth selling, in the middle of winter, not even his house or farm. No one would buy them.

As Ethan is taking Matt to the train station for the last time, they talk about how they never went sledding in town like they had wanted to (‘coasting’ in the vernacular of the time), so they stop for a bit of a sled. There’s a large elm tree that they have to dodge, but Ethan’s good at steering so they miss it. But what if they didn’t? They can get up to speed, charge straight into the tree, and dying together they would foil Zenobia’s plan and solve all their problems. But they don’t, die, they just get severely injured. Being forced into a sedentary life, Mattie becomes every bit as querulous as Zeena, and being forced to take care of someone again cures Zeena’s imaginary ailments. The three of them get along miserably for what seems the rest of their lives.

In many ways I am a lucky person, though I’ve been told that it has more to do with making good decisions than with luck. My decisions have worked out better than I deserve, I think. If I had to marry a woman, then The Ex was the right one; she wouldn’t put up with an Ethan Frome situation. I told her I was gay and she moved out. There was a short time that I wanted her back, but she held firm. She feels shame very acutely, and in her mind there’s less shame in divorcing a gay husband than in living with one. Of course, my being gay means that she had a good excuse, and that she can blame me into perpetuity without ever having to confront her own issues. I’m not saying that she will; I’m just saying that she still hates and distrusts me.

THE TOUCHSTONE

This was the most suspenseful of the stories, so I enjoyed it the most. Glennard is poor and in love, so he needs to find some way to get the money to marry. Years earlier, a famous novelist had fallen in love with him and wrote him some passionate letters from Paris; she died before the story begins, but he still has the letters. He sells them to a publisher to get the money to invest in a good company and make the money requisite to marry his great love.

But those letters were so very personal that his wife would see it as a violation of the soul to have made them public, so he has to try to keep the secret, even after the volume of letters becomes a bestseller. He goes full-on Raskolnikov about it.

The next morning he invented an excuse for leaving the house without seeing her, and when he returned, just before dinner, he found a visitor’s hat and stick in the hall. The visitor was Flamel, who was just taking his leave.

He had risen, but Alexa remained seated; and their attitude gave the impression of a colloquy that had prolonged itself beyond the limits of speech. Both turned a surprised eye on Glennard, and he had the sense of walking into a room grown suddenly empty, as though their thoughts were conspirators dispersed by his approach. He felt the clutch of his old fear. What if his wife had already sorted the papers and had told Flamel of her discovery? Well, it was no news to Flamel that Glennard was in receipt of a royalty on the Aubyn Letters.

A sudden resolve to know the worst made him lift his eyes to his wife as the door closed on Flamel. But Alexa had risen also, and bending over her writing-table, with her back to Glennard, was beginning to speak precipitately.

“I’m dining out tonight – you don’t mind my deserting you? Julia Armiger sent me word just now that she had an extra ticket for the last Ambrose concert. She told me to say how sorry she was that she hadn’t two, but I knew you wouldn’t be sorry!” She ended with a laugh that had the effect of being a strayed echo of Mrs Armiger’s; and before Glennard could speak she had added, with her hand on the door, “Mr Flamel stayed so late that I’ve hardly time to dress. The concert begins ridiculously early, and Julia dines at half-past seven.”

Glennard stood alone in the empty room that seemed somehow full of an ironical consciousness of what was happening. “She hates me,” he murmured. “She hates me . . .”

THE LAST ASSET

Mrs Newell is a resourceful sort of woman. She works her way up in society by dating rich men, having lost sight of her husband long ago. Now that she’s arranged a marriage between her daughter and a French count, she has to produce the husband to prove that she’s not divorced. She hires a reporter to find him, and he turns out to be one of those familiar strangers, people you talk to in a restaurant when you’re both the only Americans but never bother to learn their names. Notice I said ‘you’ – I wouldn’t strike up a conversation with a stranger in a restaurant, no matter how many times we ate breakfast in the same place, no matter how much his accent would remind me of home. No, the only place I enter into conversation with strangers is in an establishment dedicated to serving alcohol to homosexual men.

As with Ethan Frome, there’s a lot of sadness in this story, even though it’s about reunion.

XINGU

This one was just funny. There’s a snobby literary society up in New England somewhere, and they’ve invited a successful author to come join them. They want to impress her, but she’s not that interested in politics, design, or food, or any of the other subjects they bring up in order to awe her into confirming their sense of their own worth. Then, a member they’ve all been planning to vote out, suddenly asks her about Xingu, and everyone is convinced it’s a new philosophy that they haven’t heard of but are willing to pretend to know in order to put this author in her place. The author goes off with the savior of the group, and then everyone else looks it up – it’s a river in Brazil. She was speaking in double entendres the entire time, and they laugh and are embarrassed by their ignorance.

THE OTHER TWO

This one is frequently anthologized, so I’ve taught it a few times. It’s not as useful as “Roman Fever,” which I have more to say about so I wish academic publishers would use it instead. This story presents divorce not in its spiritual or political aspect but in its social – the awkwardness is more significant than the sin or the women’s rights. Mr Waythorn is Alice’s third husband; because of a child, he runs into the first, and because of his business he runs into the second. Divorce doesn’t necessarily remove the offending partner from one’s life completely, after all. He starts to get used to the ex-husbands, until eventually through one of those coincidental tricks of fate all three of them are in a room together, with her serving them tea.

What I find fascinating about this collection is the perspective Wharton chooses to tell the stories from. Except for “Xingu,” with its entirely female cast, Wharton always chooses the perspective of the man, not the woman. She employs the female perspective in The House of Mirth to great success, so I’m not certain why. I mean, these stories are just as emotionally complex for the women as they are for the men. I guess it gives her a chance to explore the idea that women are mysterious to men while men are completely transparent to women. Or maybe straight men like to imagine the world this way. I have a friend who described his wife as mysterious because he was always finding out new things to love about her (after more than ten years), but I always found her remarkably open, honest, and straightforward. Maybe some men need the exotic, something they don’t understand, so they project that quality onto the women they love. Love itself is often the only mystery – does she love me, and why?

I do enjoy Edith Wharton, even though there’s usually not much to make me happy in her stories. Her syntax demands to be taken slowly; it requires attention; as an author, she insists on her leisure. We must take the story at the pace she gives it to us, and there is something appealing about someone who will not be hurried. I suppose there may also be an appeal to reading a story about New England winters when I’m in the middle of a hot Southern summer, adjusting the emotional temperature to find greater comfort. This was an odd little collection of stories; I don’t know why these were chosen and not others, but I do love something strange.

This novel was originally published in 1980, and the quotes on the cover are all about how Graham Swift is the literary novelist of the decade. And to some extent, they’re right. His book fits all the conventions for the literary novel of his time. It felt like something I’d read before, even though I’ve never read anything of his before, because there’s nothing to mark it as different or distinctive. It’s the same literary novel that people have been writing since the mid-1970s.

We meet Willy Chapman on the last day of his life. He knows that it is, and there are almost constant references to this fact, even though it’s never explicitly stated. Because it’s his last day, he tries to make it both completely normal and a form of leave-taking, so of course he fails. People catch on to the fact that something’s weird, but they don’t know what.

But of course this isn’t the real story. The real story is his life, told in a series of flashbacks, sometimes in order, sometimes not.

Past the winning post, round the first bend, the shadows on the grass swivelling round mockingly in front of them. Barely half the race run, but already – you can sense it – they are getting lost in their struggles. A grimness setting in. They don’t notice the wails of the crowd or the encouragement of the figures clustered round the winning post and the judge’s desk – sports masters, house monitors in blazers and flannels, Mr Hill, bending over the track, waving what seems a threatening fist as they approach; the clock-tower, the spire. Don’t they see, the secret is not to think of the race? But they notice only the endless dark circuit of the track. A grimness. The crowd senses it. The cheering changes tone. They like a battle.

This is written close to the end, but it’s from one of the earlier scenes. Chapman was a high-school track star in 1931, where he realized that for most people life becomes a constant struggle, a battle that never ends. Until it does. People like that; they enjoy watching the fight. But that’s not what Chapman lives for. He wins the race by thinking of the encouragement, or the crowd, or anything but the struggle, the difficulty of filling lungs while moving too fast for the air to be drawn in naturally, the ache of tiring muscles, and the inevitable slowing. Chapman hangs back until the last lap, then races past for the win. His primary opponent, Jack Harrison, pushes himself to be faster than everyone else, and finally comes in second.

Irene Harrison is a reasonably nice girl from a wealthy family. They run a chain of laundries, I think all in London. Her parents pick a suitor from a similarly ‘good’ family with a ‘good’ future, so of course he date-rapes her. They insist she go out with him again, and he does it again. The family had drummed her head full of all this nonsense about feminine purity, so premarital sex kind of destroys her. She ends up going to a mental institution for a few weeks, but that only keeps her from acting out. It doesn’t heal anything.

Literature from this time seems to require a rape, or an abortion (either unwanted and forced or wanted and denied), or both. It’s like the fiction of the twentieth century is fueled by trauma inflicted on women. Thinking about it this morning, it’s like the last century went along steadily denying people the comfort of traditional gender definitions. The wars became so obscene that men doubted their masculinity simply because they refused to lose their humanity. I hate the fact that masculinity is so often defined by violence – not only because it destabilizes the gender identity of men who like peace, but mainly because it leads men to perform acts of violence simply to understand who they are. Defining masculinity through violence means that every man needs a victim, usually a woman or a child. Drawing our attention to toxic masculinity is important, but it’s most helpful to pair it with the nontoxic variety. Pointing out toxic masculinity without providing an alternative expression of male gender identity has the tendency to normalize the unhealthy attitudes. “Don’t rape women” is a fantastic rule, but we also need “Do treat women with respect, as you would any other equal.” Provide Do’s for all the Don’t’s to avoid creating a behavior vacuum, that people will then fill with other forms of bad behavior.

Chapman is sort of like the good example – the rapist and the girl’s brothers treat him like a patsy, just like in all those eighteenth-century novels where the cast-off mistress is married to a sidekick or lesser hero. But really, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with marrying a girl whose hymen is already broken, or even understand why everyone is laughing behind their hands at him. She’s pretty, he likes her, she tolerates him, so what else matters?

Throughout the book, they talk about their deal. Irene is marrying Willy because she thinks he’s the only one who will have her. He’s not her equal, either socially or intellectually. Handsome, athletic, and malleable, yes. Willy is marrying her because she’s amazing: beautiful, rich, smart. They never talk about their deal, but it runs something like this. Irene can offer Willy everything he wants except love, so he won’t bother her with that. They’ll go through the forms of marriage without ever offering or eliciting the word Love.

When they marry, he’s a lower employee in a printer’s office. His hands are almost permanently dyed black with newsprint. She buys him a newsstand so that he can own his own business, though he leans more toward offering the candy and marketing to children than focusing on the papers. Eventually he also starts selling toys, and expands to a second location. Professionally, Willy Chapman is very successful. Unfortunately, before he opens for the first time, as he’s hanging the new sign, he falls off the ladder and breaks his leg. Due to the state of medicine in 1938, this is a life-changing accident. Now, a man in his 20s can break a leg and heal without it materially affecting his movements a year later. Chapman gets a permanent limp. You could read the runner’s sudden inability even to walk comfortably as a castration, but again, it doesn’t seem to bother him too much. Or at least, his feelings aren’t important enough to dwell on.

There’s a lot of talk about World War II, but they get through it without too much trouble. He works in the quartermaster’s, and she goes to live in the country for a while, but then comes back and gets a job (pointedly not working for her father). It seems to be a theme in the British literature around World War II – just keep buggering on. Irene’s brother, the runner, dies, but she’s not that sorry to have one fewer family member to boss her around, disrespect her husband, and gaslight her.

Then there’s Dorothy. Part of the deal, what Willy and Irene give to each other, is a child. Just one. He loves children, but he’s working all the time, so Dorry is really Irene’s daughter, imbued with all of her mother’s values and faults. She’s the classic baby-boomer, as seen in the early 1970s – entitled, rude, rebellious, ungrateful. So, sort of how the baby-boomers see the millennials. Takes one to know one, I guess. Swift himself was born the same year as his character, so I want to see him identifying with her, but I never found her all that sympathetic. He seems to be celebrating his parents’ generation and partially condemning his own.

I’m tempted to discuss the differences in values in terms of gender, but it is probably more accurate to frame the discussion around class. Willy Chapman has little in common with the family he marries into, and we see it most clearly in his interactions with his wife and daughter. He’s from a working class background, and pushed his way to the lower middle before marrying a girl from the upper middle. This being the twentieth century, there are no titles, but the Harrisons are definitely gentry while Chapman would normally be permitted to shine their shoes for a nickel if he washed his hands first. Remembering the emphasis on feminine purity, Irene inherited a great deal of money from her mother, who got it when her brothers died. It’s sort of like the payment she receives for holding herself together and marrying someone the family can tolerate. She’s being paid for not going too far off the rails – or in other words, for letting her rapist get away with it, for staying silent and accepting injustice. She invests some of the money in dish sets, china that will keep its value (she insists). When she dies, it seems logical that the fifteen thousand pounds should go straight to Dorothy, but the new generation isn’t into purity. She’s been living with a fellow student without marrying him, and the sense of social outrage is too much. No inheritance from her dead mother. She’s furious, of course, and comes around to take the china, which makes Chapman very sad. He hates the idea that his daughter is so obsessed with the money – he’s not seeing it as a symbol of familial acceptance, an acknowledgment of worth. Eventually he does write her the check (it’s not like anyone else in her family is still around to care), even though he doesn’t understand why it’s so important to her. She’s going to inherit when he dies anyway, but I think he wanted her to know that he’s giving it to her of his own free will, not as a default.

Contrast that with Chapman’s work, selling newspapers and candy.

Memorials. They don’t matter. They don’t belong to us. They are only things we leave behind so we can vanish safely. Disguises to set us free. That’s why I built my own memorial so compliantly – the one she allotted me, down there in the High Street. A memorial of trifles, useless things.

Newspapers are, by their very nature, disposable. I’m always sad when I hear of people who hoard the papers, because they lose their value very quickly. I don’t mean their financial value, I mean their use value. What good is last year’s newspaper? If you buy them daily, what use is it to keep one from last month? I’ve heard that one of my father’s sisters (he has two, I’ve never met either) is one of these, and it’s sad. The trajectory of my life has been away from physical possessions, toward finding my sense of permanency within myself. Wandering through a house with floor-to-ceiling stacks of newsprint is not how I want to pass my old age, nor how I think anyone should. For the Harrisons, the newsstand is kind of a Fuck you, you don’t deserve anything permanent; for Chapman, it’s also kind of a Fuck you, I’m devoting my life to the transient, disposable things of life, not your lasting value.

And none of it – that was the beauty of it – was either useful or permanent.

The irony is that in the end, they live on Chapman’s business and not his wife’s family or inheritance. The Harrisons wither and collapse while Willy’s business expands. He assumes that Dorothy will sell the business after he dies, but he’s really built something that the most mercenary of materialists would be proud to have, despite his celebration of the temporary.

The thing that really struck me about this book, aside from seeing a valorization of my own principles, is the way that the world shrinks. He’s in London, one of the most exciting cities on the planet, but his world consists of his house, his shop, and the road he drives to get between them. It’s not even a very long road. There’s a lot more to the city than he ever sees; a lot more to England, a lot more to Planet Earth, but he tightens his gaze to a handful of buildings and a few short streets. Having traveled as much as I have, I don’t understand it. I can’t comprehend the type of fortitude and courage it takes to live according to the same routine in the same narrow orbit for thirty years. I haven’t been able to manage it for three. My life has taken me around a continent and onto three more, but Chapman’s life is circumscribed within a few miles. I’m not even sure I want to understand.

Is Graham Swift going to be studied in literature classes in fifty years as a preeminent British novelist of the late twentieth century? I don’t know. I’m inclined to say not, because there’s nothing really too experimental, nothing to grab the eye. Will I remember this book in six months? I’m not sure. Like Willy Chapman, the book itself is like a small pebble dropped in a large pond, that makes a ripple or two and then is lost. Within reach, but not important enough to retrieve.

 

This book was published in 1882; the critical consensus, then as now, is that this is really not his best work. Which is to say that it’s still better than loads of other novels, it’s just not as shining a star as The Return of the Native or The Woodlanders. There wasn’t much to stand out as especially beautiful or heart-wrenching for me – the thing is, Hardy had a specific story in mind that was quite shocking for his time, but by now it’s so commonplace that we don’t see the point of writing about it.

Let us begin with Lady Constantine. A beautiful woman, mid-20s, with a jealous yet absent husband. He’s been big-game hunting for years now. Due to his extreme insecurity, he exacted a promise from her that she wouldn’t see any company until he returned, so she’s been completely isolated. Beauty, intelligence, loneliness – she’s very much like a fairy-tale princess, destined to change her life. Enter Swithin St Cleeve. Just eighteen years old, and prettier than any girl you’ve ever seen. He’s just back from college, where he’s been studying astronomy. He starts using a tower in one of her fields as an observatory, with just a telescope that’s half-homemade. She falls for him and takes an interest in the stars to get close to him; she outfits the tower with all the expensive tools he needs. Throughout the first third of the book, he’s too enamored of the stars to see anything as near to him as her heart, and she’s bound by her promise to her absent husband to keep her hands off. The distances between stars tend to make this earthly romance seem trivial; we all dwindle to nothing when we stare into the night.

Then, as luck would have it, she gets news that her husband’s died in distant lands, so she becomes a little more pointed (only a little) in her attentions to the young astronomer. Finally he gets it, and then all the intensity of a celibate adolescent’s first crush overwhelms his science. In Act II, all he cares about is her. They get married secretly in another town, which gives them license to fuck but not to move in together. Suddenly all the conventions of society become significant again, and they’re very secretive about their meetings and affections. So when the bishop comes to town for a visit, he’s taken by the young widow and tries to make a move. She deflects him, but in so gentle a way that he doesn’t realize that’s what’s happened.

Lady Constantine has a ne’er-do-well brother who wants to get her married to the bishop so that he can continue to mooch off of her income. Act III begins when he begins to suspect that she’s interested in the boy. To make things worse, now she hears that her husband is just now dead, a year or two later than she thought. Her marriage to Swithin is invalid because she was still married to the first husband. But she didn’t know that, so all the (I assume) wild sex she’s been having is in a morally grey area. They were never legally married, but they thought they were. Of course, in the twenty-first century this greyness has largely passed away. Nobody cares. She hasn’t seen her husband in a few years, so it seems perfectly natural to me that she’d fall for a guy who’s pretty and unavailable, and that the sex act would be the natural consequence of those feelings. Just as natural for her to encourage Swithin to take an opportunity to go on a scientific voyage around the world, seeing the famous astronomers in South Africa and North America. But with him out of the way, there’s another natural consequence, so she pushes through a quick marriage to the bishop to make her child be born legitimate. Hardy glosses over a lot of what happened in the six or seven years of Swithin’s absence, but the bishop realizes that the child looks exactly like that teenager who used to hang around his new wife, and he hasn’t been married to her for nine months yet. The marriage is not a happy one, and the bishop dies of shame in a few years. He is just as cruel as her first husband, though this time we know the reason for it. Having had three bad marriages, she decides to retire to the country and raise her son in peace.

But when Swithin returns, he really pisses me off. Contact with the world has made him more aware of the world’s values, and he’s now stupid enough to think that a few grey hairs ruin a woman’s beauty. When he was eighteen and she was twenty-six it was all right, but now that he’s twenty-five and she’s thirty-three he’s not interested. Throughout the book he was proud of her and admired her, and then in the last chapter she’s suddenly not good enough for him. I suppose in 1882 it would have been impossible for them to have a happily-ever-after ending, but still. I’m not saying I was a genius at twenty-five, but I could see beauty in a woman who was older than I was.

Some people might refer to these two as star-crossed lovers, but I disagree. The stars are present when they are following their natural impulses; the talk of stars disappears when the lovers remember society and all of its legalistic moral strictures. You can’t blame the stars for people being dumb. We choose our own destinies; you don’t get what you want by waiting for the universe to serve it to you.

So, despite the astronomical references, this book wasn’t that stellar. I’ve been putting off writing about it because I just don’t have anything to say. It is as it is – shocking for the time, but rather commonplace now. I feel like the best I can say is that it’s nothing special.

During the course of his career, Forster published two collections of short stories, and then they were combined to form this volume. There were several other stories that he didn’t publish, and they came out posthumously as The Life to Come and Other Stories. The posthumous volume consists of stories that are overtly gay, and this one contains the stories that aren’t. In many of these stories, the gay content is still there, if you’re willing to look at it that way. I know I am.

My edition has no information about the writing of these stories, but if I remember the introduction to The Life to Come correctly, all of these were written before World War I, even though the second collection came out in 1928. If you’re accustomed to Howards End or A Room with a View, these stories are likely to strike you as strange. Many of them are allegorical fantasies, and while I love those, they don’t seem to be much in vogue at the moment. Critics pounced on Collateral Beauty, for example, because the personifications of Love, Time, and Death are portrayed differently than expected. I’ll admit that I had a hard time with Love the first time I saw it, but then you could argue that love doesn’t come easily to me in real life either. I idealize the concept based on the fictions I’ve read and watched, and then get upset when it doesn’t turn out the way I want. I guess that makes Keira Knightley better than I expect her to be.

THE STORY OF A PANIC

Of the supposedly not-gay stories, this one is probably the gayest. A conventional English family is on holiday in Italy, and during a picnic, everyone feels a rush of panic and runs from the scene, all but the teenage son. He feels a delicious languor and stays, but doesn’t talk about the experience. It seems like they’re running from a suddenly blossoming gayness, and he welcomes it. Their guide warns them to let him stay out at night so that he doesn’t die of unfulfilled longing, but of course they lock him up and he has to escape. His longing is for nature and privacy with a lovely Italian boy, so of course I see it as gay. It’s like he was touched by the god Pan, but it’s traditional society that starts to panic and constrain him. Life and health are to be found in the fulfilling of desire, while following societal conventions leads to illness and death.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE

Imagine life as a path we’re all walking down, bounded on both sides by thick hedges. We see the dusty road and the hedges look dying and wilted. Protagonist slips to the other side, and sees that reality is wider and more full of life than he had imagined. Of course the hedge is death and he discovers an atheist nature lover’s heaven, with grass and trees and streams. It’s nice.

THE CELESTIAL OMNIBUS

Does this sound like Hawthorne? It should. Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote a story called “The Celestial Railroad,” a parody of Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. In Bunyan, the pilgrim has to travel a long and difficult road full of temptations to reach the Celestial City, the allegorical heaven. Hawthorne’s story is about taking the train instead of walking – you skip all those distractions (temptation, suffering, exertion) and go straight to the gates of the City. However, the train doesn’t go through the gate; it turns sharply down and drags you to hell instead. Hawthorne wanted people to understand that you can’t skip over the hard things in life, and there’s no way to keep someone both sheltered and worthwhile. Truly decent people have enough experience of the world to have compassion for others and the ability to help them in their troubles, so you can’t become decent by shutting yourself up and reading your Bible all day long.

Forster’s omnibus doesn’t go to the Christian Heaven. The boy who rides the bus goes to the place where stories come from and live, so he meets Achilles and Tom Jones and all the other characters from the books he’s read. He tries to take his tutor there, but the older man insists that these stories should be kept separate and that these are good and those are not, so of course he suffers and can’t stay. The story is about leaving children free to find joy in literature where they can instead of telling them which books to appreciate and why. To some extent, this is why I wasn’t so great at teaching literature: I can’t always articulate why I love a book, or why students should. I don’t know how to communicate my own sense of beauty and wonder because I’m so frequently left speechless by them. It’s a bad idea to try to teach a book that leaves you without words. I also share the protagonist’s universal love of literature; I love all the wrong things.

OTHER KINGDOM

It’s a common enough story. A girl who is pretty and imaginative catches the eye of a man who is rich and conventional. He claims to value her for the wildness she brings into his life, but he immediately contains it and forces her into his own conventionality. It was never about valuing her sense of adventure; it was about taming her to prove his own power. It’s a sad story about a woman who wants a place of her own and the husband who ruins it for her.

THE CURATE’S FRIEND

I took myself in, and for a time I certainly took in Emily. I have never known a girl attend so carefully to my sermons, or laugh so heartily at my jokes. It is no wonder that I became engaged. She has made an excellent wife, freely correcting her husband’s absurdities, but allowing no one else to breathe a word against them; able to talk about the sub-conscious self in the drawing-room, and yet have an ear for the children crying in the nursery, or the plates breaking in the scullery. An excellent wife – better than I ever imagined. But she has not married me.

The curate meets a faun in the woods and gets blocked from the heterosexual marriage narrative. He took the girl and a neighbor boy on a picnic, and the faun (invisible to them) got the girl and boy together instead of helping the curate get the girl for himself. There’s a bit of Midsummer Night’s Dream in this. In the end, the curate realizes he’s happier without marriage, which has often been the conclusion of homosexuals who strike out with the opposite sex. As with the panic story above, proximity to nature and existence outside the marriage narrative seems to indicate there’s some gayness. Were I directing this as a play, the gayness would be more obvious, but a closeted first-person narrator isn’t going to slip up and reveal anything.

THE ROAD FROM COLONUS

This is the story I’ve seen anthologized the most, but I don’t see it as all that different from the others. I guess someone just picked this one (having an old man who changes might appeal to the old men who made the selections long ago) and then everyone else kept picking it because it was cheaper than asking the printer to set a different story.

Another conventional English family is traveling in Italy when their old man finds a spring of water bubbling up inside a dead tree. He stands inside the tree, in the spring, and feels a sudden restoration of youth and energy. He wants to stay, but his family insists he push on with them. They literally sneak up behind him, pick him up, and place him on the donkey when he tries to stay. With the best intentions, they ruin the end of his life. After they leave, there’s a natural disaster and the area is destroyed. Did nature throw a tantrum because he left, which he could have averted by staying? Did his children steal him from a happy death and force him into a miserable life? However you choose to interpret it, it seems that no one is free from the bonds of society – young and old, male and female, rich and poor, we’re all circumscribed by the people we live among. It seems so necessary to choose carefully whom we live among instead of accepting life’s default by living among our closest blood relations.

THE MACHINE STOPS

This begins the second group of stories, published in 1928. This also seems to be the story with the most scholarly work done on it. This is unusual for the collection because it’s high-concept science fiction, more H. G. Wells than D. H. Lawrence. It’s also very timely; people live in isolated, Matrix-like cells and communicate through the internet, constantly on a version of Facebook where they spend all day sharing their thoughts and watching videos. Forster makes them more like TED talks than like that one of the cat wearing a shark costume and riding a Roomba, but the concept is the same. The Machine feeds them and caters to their physical needs, except exercise and genuine human interaction. People are allowed to go outside, but they are discouraged from wanting to, and the guy who wants out eventually folds to peer pressure. Of course, what happens when the machine breaks down? They have to come up to the surface and try to live in the real world they’ve never seen. There are obvious ties to Huxley’s Brave New World.

THE POINT OF IT

The protagonist ends up in hell because he doesn’t understand the point of it. Forster’s Bloomsbury friends claimed that they didn’t get the point of it either. Scene 1: A sickly boy insists on rowing a boat across a difficult river, even though his companion is much more physically fit than he is. The effort kills him, but he dies happy. The friend doesn’t understand. Scene 2: The friend goes on to live a quietly ordinary life following the path of least resistance that his class privilege lays before him (also race and gender privilege), never making waves, always going along to get along. He never understands the point of doing otherwise. Scene 3: The friend is in hell, a bleak desert of prone figures. He eventually figures out that he can stand up, walk to a river, and cross it into heaven, but he first has to understand what the point of it is. It seems obvious to me, the point is that exertion is its own reward, that resistance is necessary to a life worth living, that we all need to see ourselves as heroes. The path society sets before us leads to complacency, tedium, bleakness, and hell. The Stonewall patrons weren’t trying to make history; they just got sick of being told they couldn’t choose their own identities. The point of it is to resist enslavement by society’s conventions, even if it kills you, because the alternative is a long, slow death and a longer, slower hell.

MR ANDREWS

Mr Andrews has died and is going on up to heaven. He meets a Turkish fellow who is doing the same. They find heaven to be exactly as their religions taught them to imagine it, but with enough space for them both to have the heaven they believe in. They both find it boring after a while, and decide to join the World Soul instead, which is a far more ecstatic experience than they could have dreamed. The forms of organized religion are so limiting, and can’t take us to ultimate happiness. For that, we have to let go of the forms and let reality take us where it wants us to go.

CO-ORDINATION

Protagonist is an unhappy music teacher. She has to teach pairs of girls the same duet all day long. It’s part of the school’s system of coordination, which means that everyone teaches the same topic in their different subjects. So, suppose this month the topic is Napoleon. The kids will read stories about the Wars in literature class, get the real history in their history class, see French armies in their word problems in math class, and study ballistics in science class. Some educators find it to be effective, but the forced conformity is here presented as stifling, and as with The Celestial Omnibus, Forster seems to advocate an educational system based on following the students’ interest, with the chief aim to provoke delight rather than correct test answers. Aesthetic sensibility triumphs over strict regulation, and if the teacher is released from her position, that’s really not such a bad thing.

THE STORY OF THE SIREN

As with many of the stories from the first half, we have a journey to Italy and a classical allusion. It starts with a young man losing his dissertation in the water (a similar thing happened in one of the stories from The Life to Come), and then he meets someone who tells him the story. You remember the sirens from the Odyssey; beautiful women who sing to men and lure them to their deaths. In this telling, you can only hear the song once, and if you’re prevented from following it, you spend your whole life wasting away from desire, likely to drown yourself to be able to hear it again. Being touched by magic unfits you for the life of society, and you have to plunge into nature like the boy who gets fucked by Pan in that Panic story. You don’t plunge, you die; you do plunge, you likely die anyway. Everyone dies; the question is, how? Do you live the life of daring and die reaching for a goal you can’t reach, or do you live a life of quiet desperation and die with the knowledge that your life was wasted? This seems the question the siren asks, as well as Forster, but people are obviously better off if the question never occurs to them. It’s easier to hate your life if everyone else does too; being called into a life of fulfillment is scary and could lead to death, but I think it might be better to taste fulfillment and die young than live to an old age and never feel complete or satisfied. Long and empty, or short and full? Realistically I know those aren’t our only options, but it’s hard to have a life you value if you don’t risk it every now and again.

THE ETERNAL MOMENT

An elderly author comes back to Italy, where she had fallen in love with the young local who inspired her first novel. They each followed the conventional paths society chose for them: she remaining single and virginal, he becoming vulgar and overweight. Athletes who let their figures go can be so disappointing.

For she realized that only now was she not in love with him: that the incident upon the mountain had been one of the great moments of her life – perhaps the greatest, certainly the most enduring: that she had drawn unacknowledged power and inspiration from it, just as trees draw vigour from a subterranean spring. Never again could she think of it as a half-humorous episode in her development. There was more reality in it than in all the years of success and varied achievement which had followed, and which it had rendered possible. For all her correct behaviour and lady-like display, she had been in love with Feo, and she had never loved so greatly again. A presumptuous boy had taken her to the gates of heaven; and, though she would not enter with him, the eternal remembrance of the vision had made life seem endurable and good.

Which is why it’s better to go ahead and enter the gates. A handsome man takes you off into nature and offers a pleasant, consensual experience, I say take it. I don’t regret the sex I’ve had, but I do regret the opportunities I let pass by.

I seriously loved this story collection. It’s weird and different and a little bit gay, and I think it’s great. As I said, not typical of the novels of his I’ve read, but I like them so much more. In a shorter form, he really hits the theme of resisting conventions because society strangles people faster and harder than in the novels. These are good stories, and should be read more often than they are.

 

In this book, Lawrence finally addresses directly some tendencies I’ve been noticing in his career after World War I. For example, the lack of action:

Chapter follows chapter, and nothing doing. But man is a thought-adventurer, and he falls into the Charybdis of ointment, and his shipwrecks on the rocks of ages, and his kisses across chasms, and his silhouette on a minaret: surely these are as thrilling as most things.

To be brief, there was a Harriet, a Kangaroo, a Jack and a Jaz and a Vicky, let alone a number of mere Australians. But you know as well as I do that Harriet is quite happy rubbing her hair with hair-wash and brushing it over her forehead in the sun and looking at the threads of gold and gun-metal, and the few threads, alas, of silver and tin, with admiration. And Kangaroo has just got a very serious brief, with thousands and thousands of pounds at stake in it. Of course he is fully occupied keeping them at stake, till some of them wander into his pocket. And Jack and Vicky have gone down to her father’s for the week-end, and he’s out fishing, and has already landed a rock-cod, a leather-jacket, a large schnapper, a rainbow-fish, seven black-fish, and a cuttlefish. So what’s wrong with him? While she is trotting over on a pony to have a look at an old sweetheart who is much too young to be neglected. And Jaz is arguing with a man about the freight rates. And all the scattered Australians are just having a bet on something or other. So what’s wrong with Richard’s climbing a mental minaret or two in the interim? Of course there isn’t any interim. But you know that Harriet is brushing her hair in the sun, and Kangaroo looking at huge sums of money on paper, and Jack fishing, and Vicky flirting, and Jaz bargaining, so what more do you want to know? We can’t be at a stretch of tension all the time, like the E string on a fiddle. If you don’t like the novel, don’t read it. If the pudding doesn’t please you, leave it, I don’t mind your saucy plate. I know too well that you can bring an ass to water, etc.

So, if you’re not fond of books with a lot of ideas and very little action, Lawrence says that that is not his fault, and you’re welcome to run off and do something else. This very polite Fuck You to his critics comes at the end of a lengthy comparison of himself to a fly in the ointment – he’s somehow gotten himself stuck in the sticky mass of humanity, but being there only highlights how unfit for the location he is, how disagreeable to all of humanity he feels himself to be.

The key to his elitism, as I’ve called it before, is in his treatment during World War I. This section of the book is considered autobiographical, so let’s consider it as such, assuming that his protagonist R. L. Somers is a stand-in for himself, D. H. Lawrence. Before the war began, he married a woman of German parentage, so perhaps the government was already a little distrustful of him. They were living in Cornwall the first time he was called in to the draft board; he was weighed and measured and found wanting. I assume this to mean that they pulled out their calipers and measured his muscles and bones, especially since he spends some time talking about his skinny little legs. In any event, he was rejected by the army as physically unfit. However, they sort of assumed he was a spy, and the local constabulary kept a harrassful eye on him and his friends. After a while the army was getting desperate and called him in again, this time labeling him a C3, which is not quite rejected but still not good enough for active service. The harassment continued, so he left Cornwall and moved to Derbyshire. His examination by the war office here was even more demeaning – one of the doctors literally pulled the conscripts’ cheeks apart to stare into their buttholes. As I consider this action, the only purpose I can come up with is that they were checking for homosexual activity (or at least trying to). I mean, actual health problems almost always have some other, easier means of verification than a visual inspection of the anus. For Somers, though, this is the last straw, especially since this inspection only moves him up to C2, noncombat duty. So, he spent four years being told that he wasn’t good enough for his own country, while at the same time being hounded for alleged spywork for the enemy. It’s a weird stance, because if his own government considers him unfit, why would a foreign government see him any differently?

So, overwhelmed by rejection, he flees humanity. Like Lawrence, Somers spends some time in Europe before going to Australia, to get away from all these people. For Lawrence, World War I was the time when the lower classes upended society and bullied the educated and the wealthy simply because they finally could. He may have had some sympathy for the coalminers he grew up among before the War, but afterward, he has no fellow feeling for anyone. Humanity as a mass is malignant and unpredictable – the only safety is in very small numbers, and even individuals can be shockingly frightening.

The first third of the book is about Somers’ growing friendship with Jack Callcott, a white supremacist. From the moment of Somers’ arrival in Australia, Jack befriends him and grooms him for joining the Diggers’ Club he’s a part of. There’s something very Fight Club about all this, sports clubs as a front for political maneuvering, possibly leading to violent revolution. Somers thinks that the government needs to be run by ‘responsible’ people, which in his British mind originally meant the aristocracy and the educated, but given traveling experience, it now seems to mean white people. As if persons of any other race, African or aboriginal Australian or Indian or Mediterranean or Russian, are incapable of caring sufficiently about government to do it properly. Those of us raised in the American South are probably thinking about the Ku Klux Klan at the moment, and there are strong parallels. There’s a strain of suppressed eroticism in their friendship, as if all this political business is really just a sublimation of their desire to fuck each other. After all, they keep their women out of it.

This scene was too much for Jack Callcott. Somers or no Somers, he must be there. So there he stood, in his best clothes and a cream velour hat and a short pipe, staring with his long, naked, Australian face, impassive. On the field the blues and the reds darted madly about, like strange bird-creatures rather than men. They were mostly blond, with hefty legs, and with prominent round buttocks that worked madly inside the little white cotton shorts. And Jack, with his dark eyes, watched as if it was doomsday. Occasionally the tail-end of a smile would cross his face, occasionally he would take his pipe-stem from his mouth and gave a bright look into vacancy and say, “See that!”

Even watching a football match, maybe especially while watching a football match, the homoerotic desire keeps peeking out, only to be forced back in. Somers even thinks of sleeping with Jack’s wife because he thinks Jack won’t really mind, though I think he would. He might not supervise her every move, but he does seem possessive.

Act One culminates in Somers meeting Kangaroo, the secret leader of all these alt-right revolutionary clubs. He wants Somers to join their cause and write for their publications, but Somers won’t do it. For one thing, Kangaroo is Jewish, and that’s a problem for racist Somers. For another, Kangaroo talks explicitly in terms of love: like many right-wing leaders, he sees political activity as an act of paternal love for the poor innocents who can’t manage their own communities. He’s less explicitly racist than Callcott, but doesn’t correct the racism of others. I guess he recognizes that he’s not as white as the others, and his position is therefore a bit precarious. Another reason for Somers’ resistance is his decision about what his relationship with Callcott ought to be. What kind of mate does he want to be? Is it possible for someone like Somers to have friends, or to belong to groups at all? He feels so far outside of humanity that it’s hard for him to join in, even when he has such a clear invitation.

Act Two deals with Somers’ decisions as to Kangaroo and Callcott, but Callcott has also introduced him to Jaz, an unsocial little Cornish guy. His lack of outward friendliness makes him a better fit for Somers, and he introduces Somers to Kangaroo’s archrival, Willie Struthers. Struthers is trying to lead Australia into Communism (remember, this was the 1920s, and the arguments in favor were very strong. In my opinion, they still are). Somers is just as incapable of joining the far left as he was the far right, even though they seem equally assured that he belongs to their side. I suppose, when you hold yourself aloof from all groups, each group sees you as potentially one of theirs simply because you are clearly not on of their opponents’.

Act Two climaxes with the story about Somers’ life in World War I, explained above. It’s like a Gothic novel, only instead of having a mysterious house and a conspiracy plot, the only mystery is why Somers is so antisocial. Like a good dialectical novel, Act Three shows what happens when the Diggers show up at a Communist rally, with the appropriate explosions and violence. Callcott accuses Somers of being a spy, which is what people seem always to say when you investigate their group and then decide it’s not for you. Some people just don’t understand informed decision-making.

While all of this political stuff creates some intense drama, there are two other important things going on in Somers’s life. The first is his relationship with his wife. Their marriage suffers when he has too much “boy time”, ignoring her to go to political meetings and such. Callcott’s wife doesn’t seem interested, but Harriet Somers has the intellect and the interest to engage in politics, but the misogynistic prejudices of the men keep her from her natural success in that arena. She’s strong and capable, but limited by her society. Lawrence seems fully aware of the restrictions laid on women, but Somers doesn’t fight against them. I guess if you see all society as stupid and unjust, then more specific injustices don’t bother you as much. Or in other words, he identifies himself as a victim and is uninterested in ending the victimization of anyone else. Society doesn’t want him, so he’s not going to solve its problems.

The other strain in the book is travel writing. This is, after all, a book about two people who come to a new country. He portrays the land and sea as congenial (we’re talking about Sydney and its environs), and the people as unusually friendly and informal. That being said, there are occasional storms, so life in Australia is not as safe as it seems.

It was a clear and very starry night. He took the tramcar away from the centre of the town, then walked. As was always the case with him, in this country, the land and the world disappeared as night fell, as if the day had been an illusion, and the sky came bending down. There was the Milky Way, in the clouds of star-fume, bending down right in front of him, right down till it seemed as if he would walk on to it, if he kept going. The pale, fumy drift of the Milky Way drooped down and seemed so near, straight in front, that it seemed the obvious road to take. And one would avoid the strange dark gaps, gulfs, in the way overhead. And one would look across to the floating isles of star-fume, to the south, across the gulfs where the sharp stars flashed like lighthouses, and one would be in a new way denizen of a new plane, walking by oneself. There would be a real new way to take. And the mechanical earth quite obliterated, sunk out.

He also mentions the accent a few times. It’s sometimes hard for me – there are some pieces of dialogue in Strictly Ballroom that it took a few viewings for me to understand, and I actually do better with the Spanish than I do with some of the English. I once had a coworker from Australia, and he was telling me someone’s name that was unfamiliar, and I just couldn’t understand the vowel, not even when he spelled it aloud. It could have been A, E, or I, and I’m still not sure which was correct. Logically, that part should have been easier for me than it was because I grew up in a place that tends to conflate the pronunciation of the same vowels, but my Southern childhood confusions over pin and pen did not prepare me for the Australian confusion between Liz and Les.

In some ways, this is a clearer novel than Aaron’s Rod or The Lost Girl. It’s still a bit elitist, but the elitism is explained in a way that makes sense to me. I know that my experiences in Saudi Arabia and Texas do not really compare with Lawrence’s during the War, but I recognize the PTSD and the inability to join groups from my own experience. I finally understood him, and saw in him a mirror of my own life. Lawrence/Somers doesn’t see healing as an option, but I do. I’d like to be able to walk through a crowd without panicking one day, and I don’t think it’s an unreasonable goal to strive for. I hope one day to trust the world like I used to. I believe I can be free from the trauma and fear that holds me back, that keeps me from the full unfolding of my personality. I don’t think it’s necessary to stay on the defensive all the time, and I believe it’s possible to work past it.

 

The people marketing this book claim that it completes a trilogy begun by The Rainbow and Women in Love, which is of course complete bollocks. The previous two are joined by having the same major characters, and there isn’t even a hint of Brangwens in this book. If we’re talking about theme instead of character, well, doesn’t Lawrence work through issues of love, marriage, sex, and freedom in all his novels? If it were theme, what would separate these three from the rest of the oeuvre?

Aaron is a Midlands coalminer, and on the surface things seem all right – wife, children, tradition, etc. But at Christmas his daughter breaks a glass ball that he had been putting on trees since he was a kid, and without this symbol of unbroken tradition he goes completely off the rails. He runs out to buy candles for the tree and maybe have a pint, but he ends up sleeping with one of the gentry instead of going home that night. From there, he goes deeper and deeper into the Bohemian world, first to London and then to Italy, because there’s a certain inevitable attraction between Lawrence characters and Italy.

The title references the Biblical story of Aaron, Moses’s brother. Aaron used a staff to perform Moses’s magic tricks, including the one where the staff buds and grows flowers like a tree without being rooted in earth. Our Aaron has a flute, and while it’s not magical, it is often the source of Aaron’s power. His friend Lilly makes the comparison explicit and wonders what flowers will grow from the flute – the answer seems to be that with musical talent and a handsome face all sorts of doors are open to one, no matter what his background. His rootlessness begins with sleeping with a man (the first time?), and he has several other opportunities of the same type. This being Lawrence, there’s nothing graphic or explicit about same-sex lovers, but he creates the opportunity for it, and there are some men in his book that seem like gay couples, even though we didn’t talk about that sort of thing in 1922. Aaron has a major emotional crisis the first time he sleeps with a woman – he had had affairs before he left his wife, so I guess he only had to get away from her to sleep with men. It’s the going back and forth that he has a hard time with at first, like bisexuality is harder to swallow than being at either end of the Kinsey scale. By the time he gets to Italy, though, he’s past that. So yes, I suppose you could also argue that Aaron’s rod is his cock because this book is more about what he does with that than what he does with his flute, and we are revving up to Lady Chatterley’s Lover, published a few years later.

In his own powerful but subconscious fashion Aaron realised this. He was a musician. And hence even his deepest ideas were not word-ideas, his very thoughts were not composed of words and ideal concepts. They too, his thoughts and his ideas, were dark and invisible, as electric vibrations are invisible no matter how many words they may purport. If I, as a word-user, must translate his deep conscious vibrations into finite words, that is my own business. I do but make a translation of the man. He would speak in music. I speak with words.

The inaudible music of his conscious soul conveyed his meaning in him quite as clearly as I convey it in words: probably much more clearly. But in his own mode only: and it was in his own mode only he realised what I must put into words. These words are my own affair. His mind was music.

Don’t grumble at me then, gentle reader, and swear at me that this damned fellow wasn’t half clever enough to think all these smart things, and realise all these fine-drawn-out subtleties. You are quite right, he wasn’t, yet it all resolved itself in him as I say, and it is for you to prove that it didn’t.

I don’t recall Lawrence speaking quite so directly to the reader like this in his other books, but I might be wrong. As with his other novels, there’s a little bit of action and then a lot of analysis of that action, and a lot of dialogue about abstract concepts, which I suppose is Lawrence’s way of selecting his audience. A lot of the ideas center around Lilly, either because he’s giving them voice or because Aaron is trying to understand his friend’s influence over him. Aaron goes to Italy because he’s following Lilly, and he really loses his sense of peace when he’s too much away from him. It’s sort of like how I’m feeling for New Guy – he works six days a week, so we don’t see each other as often as we’d like. And I get lonely and sad when I don’t see him, as if my equilibrium is becoming dependent on him. This process kind of scares me; with the Midwestern Man, he was only attracted to me as long as I didn’t need him. Once my emotional wagon got firmly hitched to his star, he lost interest, and things only got really great again after I decided to leave him. New Guy doesn’t have the same issues, so maybe he’ll still love me if I rely on him, but it’s hard for me to trust that.

At first, Lilly’s talk about relationships focuses on independence. The ideal is two people who can stand on their own two feet, emotionally, economically, rationally, and in all other ways, but who choose to stand close together. I like the sound of it, it’s an image that appeals to me strongly — probably because I spent eight years being needed, but a lot of that time I didn’t feel wanted. I have no desire to get back into a relationship where I am undesired but necessary. Lawrence’s discussion of Aaron’s relationship with his wife feels uncannily familiar, where a marriage ends up being a struggle for one party to feel powerful and the other to feel loved. In the end, though, Lilly changes his mind and decides that it really is about power and submission – either you’re strong enough to bend the entire world to your will or you find someone you can submit to. This leads to the sort of elitism that I’m not fond of, the sort of thinking that creates Hitlers of us all, and it ends the book with the same sort of abruptness that Women in Love did – that one ends with Birkin realizing he believes in the possibility of romantic love between men, this one ends with Aaron realizing he is in deep submissive love with Lilly, both of them steps too far to pursue at that time. It’s like the book has to end when it gets to the point that society won’t accept, even though that point has been the goal the entire time.

I have a friend who’s working through similar ideas of bisexuality and polyamory in her life. She’s currently got a boyfriend and a girlfriend, and they all know about each other and accept the situation as it is. In talking about it, it seems that she needs to be both dominant and submissive – she’s a forceful person, so she needs someone she can order around and control, but she also needs the experience of being with someone who awes her, who can take command of the situation and make her obey. It’s a little more sadomasochistic than I want in my relationships, but I think about my experience on both sides of the sexual fence, and I can understand it. Being a top makes me feel powerful, but also anxious about my performance. Being a bottom makes me feel loved, but also a little passive. I’m not balancing them both at the same time, though. I don’t need to use sex to make me feel like I’m in control of my own life, and I certainly don’t want to be with someone who will overwhelm me into subjection. A bedroom is one place where I want to be able to set aside issues of power and control and just relax with someone I love.

This is also a novel about coping with World War I. The war is over before the book begins, but everyone is still thinking about it, talking about it, seeing the immediate effects of it. The war may be part of the reason for Aaron to embark on this quest for identity. It’s like the war blew up the entire world, and people haven’t figured out how to put it back together. Aaron didn’t fight because the country still needed coal to operate during the war, but it still left him unmoored, like Darl or Shadrack. And eventually historical events break his flute, so the only thing he has in the end is this friend who will never commit to anything, the one person who refuses to let anyone rely on him. Ultimately we are all alone, which is why it’s so important to enjoy one’s own company. If alone is our natural state, we should learn to love it.

Maybe alone isn’t everyone’s natural state. Maybe not everyone’s nature is the same. Learning to love myself in solitude has been a hard lesson, though, and it’s something I don’t want to lose, no matter whom else I fall in love with, no matter how many times.