I have funny gaps in my reading, especially when it comes to the so-called "classics", a word that makes me think of togaed, mustachioed white men with collars the shape of coffee filters, or maybe the occasional frumpy, cheerless, sexless, and lumpen Female Author. I know none of this is actually the case. This is a construct of shameful archetypes in my own mind, my teenaged, early adult mind that reduced me to "Fuck you, Melville. William S. Burroughs IS the American novelist par excellence."
Then you get older and you start rebelling against yourself because you've already rebelled against the world. Par becomes a golfing term, you begin getting hairless patches on the backs of your legs, and you realize that Burroughs is a terrible writer.
Lawrence neatly plops down into this Classic Gap, which is even neater for the fact that he's writing about rebelling against yourself because you've already rebelled against the world or at least healthy chunks of it.
I've always associated Lawrence with Cinemax late-night soft core pornography. I'm sure there's a lurid, early 80s film version of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" that I was vaguely aware of during my early-cable TV sexual awakening. But that was about it.
Lawrence is one of those writers who is so good it's kind of terrifying. Case in point: I challenge anyone to read stories like "A Fragment of Stained Glass" (worth the whole read alone, a disturbing, beautiful story) or "Daughters of the Vicar" and not be profoundly unsettled by his gifts.
His prose, lyrical and dark and weird, is one thing. His themes are another. Yes, these are, at their core, very sensual works, but not like you'd think. The desire here are primal, almost prehuman or preternatural. Men and women hunt each other inside the nights that exist alongside us in perpetuity. Sometimes men hunt men as in "The Prussian Officer". Sometimes women hunt moles as in "Second Best". What matters most here is the sublime savagery of love and desire and Lawrence excels at exploring this without getting bogged down in details of blatant sexuality.
I know Lawrence was kind of a pre-fascist asshole, but, still. Even Orwell admired him and he hated everything!