Women in Love by D.H. Lawrence: 5 of 5 stars
So exasper/exhilar/ated. Mostly ‘ated’ trying to put together what’s what in the extended monologue of this book. Methinks two Lawrence(s) in a row was a mistake. The drama gnaws at you after a while. The thinking just grinds away. Where The Rainbow is a romp, Women in Love is stifled. Where Rainbow’s is a wet mess, Women in Love is crispy, tweaked out, “modern” in a way that makes me a bit ill. If Rainbow is about the earth, Women is about inhabiting. And inhabiting is so much more brittle, chaotic, foregone. Like Lawrence got socked in the stomach and then wrote this. I don’t really know about this book. I respected it while sort of distant, unmoved. Maybe the misogyny did it, maybe the despicability of the characters. Maybe something else, more forlorn and hopeless there. An overthought so oppressive and bitter when reading, but touching me now that I’m done.