My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Bid me to Live on an airplane to San Diego to get my mind off the fact that I didn’t want to die amidst the buildings you land on and on the beach with Paul’s cousins, great aunts and uncles, mom and sister. Where I tried surfing and failed to surf and read Bid Me to Live burning and burning my legs and neck, burning my back on the board, putting everything on sidewise, like the sea does, falling asleep. Git er dun. Which isn’t exactly what H.D. had in mind.
I imagine the detachedness of her physical gestures, as I suggested to Charles, that she really worked hard to not be a tight ass. That she was threading through her life a kind of transparency, a miserable transparency because it was not the truth, it was not subject to any rules of conversation, it was a kind of swimming pool at night throwing light all over. That she desired very little on the surface of her life. Desired nothing to come to her, nothing wrapped up or overhead, not one of her beautiful things in the upstairs apartment. That her desire lay beneath her and reflected an image of herself upwards. That she was never sure what moved her. That her desires, as herself, could be this reflection of light. That loving D.H. Lawrence was a manifestation of both jealousy and disgust. That her love was more formally a misunderstanding, a tension of readership, an inability to see what made him and not her.