"o gênio de lawrence"

(born in England: 1885 - died in France: 1930)

She (Lady Chatterley) went downstairs calmly, with her old demure bearing, at dinner-time. He (Sir Clifford, her cripple husband) was still yellow at his gills: in for one of his liver bouts, when he was really very queer. - He was reading a French book.

"Have you ever read Proust?" he asked.

"I've tried - but he bores me."

"He's really very extraordinary."

"Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings. I'm tired of self-important mentalities."

"Would you prefer self-important animalities?"

"Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't self-important."

"Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well-bred anarchy."

"It makes you very dead, really."

"There speaks my evangelical little wife."

They were at it again, at it again! But she couldn't help fighting him. He seemed to sit there like a skeleton, sending out a skeleton's cold grisly will againts her. Almost she could feel the skeleton clutching her and pressing her to its cage of ribs. He too was really up in arms: and she was a little afraid of him.

(Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence, 1928, pg. 195)

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