Volume 49, Number 19 · December 5, 2002
'The Fox' of D.H. Lawrence
By Doris Lessing
Lawrence the man and D.H. Lawrence the writer: both provoked strong reactions in his lifetime, and it all still goes on. He had the defects of his qualities: he had no defects, he was a genius; he is at the heart of English literature; he is secure in his place in world literature; he is a misogynist and a scumbag. But pick up a Lawrence tale and the old magic begins working. I read him as a young woman, in the old Rhodesia, and not in the proper order: in wartime one grabs what one can get. It was Aaron's Rod, my first one: and nearly sixty years later in my mind are scenes as bright as they were then. The sounds of water as a man washes, listening while his wife badmouths him, for he is leaving her forever. Nascently fascist Italy, plagued by gangs of unemployed youth; mountains streaked with snow like tigers; the vividness of it all: I was seduced while resisting the man's message, which seemed to be a recommendation to find a strong personality to submit oneself to. And so with Kangaroo and the Australian bush, which I can see now as he described it, dreamlike and spectral, different from the bush I actually saw later. Quite forgotten is the nonsense about the strong Leader and his followers, suspiciously like storm troopers.
Feature, 2515 words
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