An pertinent excerpt from my current novel, D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover
So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connexion were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax. One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one’s privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a girl, one’s whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl’s life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connexions and subjections.
Tell me about your favourite novels about D.H. Lawrence and your favourite adaptations of his work. I’m very interested in exploring his writing and the films that spurred from it more thoroughly.