I’m a Lawrence latecomer - when I studied at university, my interests principally lay elsewhere. From afar, I only associated his name with the Chatterley Ban, dimly acknowledging the ripples of its cultural effect. Several years later, when I tried to open Women in Love I gave up after three pages - too much crochet and loins - 'Jane Austen on crack,’ as a friend amusingly put it. Last year I tried with renewed zeal, and this time, perhaps because my mood was curiously receptive to its flaws as well as its attributes, at last found my way in.
Lawrence's critical work is punchy, and it has the benefit of being grounded in argument as opposed to the destabilising possibilities of fiction. Lawrence is an arresting critic, direct in his expression and particular in his preoccupations. If his prose has at its worse moments a tendency to purplish exuberance, this is not at the fore of his non-fiction pieces; for the most part his sentences are snappy, and Blakean with their startling juxtapositions. Whether he is writing about Whitman or hedgehogs, mining or his unanswered mail, he writes as if not only his life but the life of all humanity depends on it. For some this tone of strenuous earnestness is tiresome, but given its rarity in the history of English letters, there is much to be said in its defence.