Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence

I am very lucky that I was raised in a household where books are believed to be good. No ban has ever been placed upon my reading, other than the chastise that I would ruin my eyesight. I still remember that my parents had no qualms buying me two five-dollar novels at the Costco checkout, one being a titilating V. C. Andrews, the other what none of us realized was a (non-)harlequin(-published) romance. It did not have a suggestive cover illustration, and was really no more lewd than V. C. Andrews. It was my seventh grade teacher who raised an eyebrow when I, in all innocence, brought out the novel for silent reading. He asked me if I enjoyed it with a strange expression, and I assured him I did, very earnestly. I had read every word, but I still didn't see how it was objectionable. Reading is good, it broadens your mind and expands your vocabulary: I didn't think anything in a printed book should be censured.

I think I will raise my kids with that maxim. They are free to read whatever they like.

So I intend to quote and comment on Lady Chatterley's Lover. Now, nobody who tries to please both sides ever succeeds or ever ends up sitting comfortably on the fence; nevertheless, I live by the tenet that I must think for myself. And sex is a fascinating topic to ponder on. I guess I am one of those cerebral types who read but have not done; but I don't think discussing sex is a sign of lust, or corrupts. I am both Catholic and the picture of a good girl all prunes and prisms, people would say it's creepy and wrong if I had "dirty" thoughts, but curiosity isn't inappropriate, and if I'm curious, I'm only human. And so I read books with sex scenes, and I think about them.

Lady Chatterley's Lover has some interesting proclamations: first, that sex is really meaningless, and that it certainly does not imply the giving away of something sacred (namely, yourself.)

A man was like a child with his appetites. A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connexion. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have power over him.

We have been having the same holy war of first kisses and more, in which are pitched those who say you should say yourself for your ideal, against "i hope that whatever the essence of "me" is, is not weak or insignificant enough to be completely destroyed to the point of worthlessness because i let a man touch me before my wedding day... i dont think i have ever given part of myself away, not when i've loved a person or simply lusted after them. even when i've been in love and it didn't work out, i emerge from it changed in subtle ways but still essentially the same person, or at least still a full, complete person."

I, predictably, have been trying to appease both sides with no avail.

" 'In that case I love to give a part of myself away! I am a firm believer that you have to kiss a lot of frogs in order to find "prince charming". ' "

I like that way of putting it, too.

Once upon a time, long long ago, I was very happy about my first kiss and who it was with. I was pretty sure I would grow up and marry him. It would've been very sweet if it worked out that way, but life isn't always like that.

You can save yourself for someone, or be sure they're the one, etc., but people change and even engagements can break. So if you love someone, why not cherish the moments now that you have together?

As quoted in Emily's Quest books:

Since ever the world was spinning
And till the world shall end
You've your man in the beginning
Or you have him in the end,
But to have him from start to finish
And neither to borrow nor lend
Is what all of the girls are wanting
And none of the gods can send.
"

I, on the one hand, know I have a (religious) allegiance to chastity, on the other I know I can only be true to myself, and then, most of all I would like to know passionate love.

So here it is: a book published in 1928 that in the very first chapter takes the idealism out of sex and social constructs of fidelity. As a beginning it is extremely effective and captivating, like the thesis stated at the beginning of an essay: really this is the book that Two Solitudes should have been. Constance is a heroine whose life shows her philosophy, instead of a demographic sample or exemplary character created to show the point of the story, like the ones in Two Solitudes. Both novels are essays in that they propel a certain view and critique of modern society, but Lawrence has woven the discussion artfully into the novel and MacLennon's conversations seem contrived, inserted.

What are Lawrence's conversations, though? His basic beliefs outlined in the first chapter, I am surprised that the characters can go on and converse about - nothing, really - for pages. How do you write this stuff? No, I'm not a Lawrence fan, and his books leave me feeling strangely desolate and empty: not because of Lawrence's opinions, but maybe because of the life depicted. How do you paint a picture to show that something is essentially meaningless? Doesn't that make your work of art itself meaningless?

Compared to Anais Nin (from whom I first read about Lady Chatterly's Lover) Lawrence's psychology is really one-sided, limited to the affairs of the upper-class and working classes. Nin's short stories are captivating, and each one reveals more about sex and human personalities than Lawrence's whole book. What does Lawrence gain by length? A greater time-span and more conversation, it seems; probably all that anchors it in its society and its contemporary notions of bolshevism and socialism, but I know so little of that world. Instead, what shines in the novel to me is that chapter of Constance and Mellors's lovemaking, when Constance falls to mimicking in Mellors' dialect, and Mellors elucidates the meaning of someone having "balls" to us. I have always thought that expression vulgar, but now, glamourized by Mellors, I find it charming.

But I don't know if all the beauty, artistry, and classical allusions of Mellors' and Lady Chatterley's romance rivals the love scene between Paul and Heather. The latter is so natural. The former; well, I still find Lawrence's archaic sexual language awkward, and I suppose I must be well-read enough or I wouldn't understand what he means, because he is very detailed, without being graphic or "lemony", no: his sex scenes are as a dream or a classical painting.

For my sex education, here is the blunt and brutal you get in Lawrence: "No, it's hopeless! I just simply can't vibrate in unison with a woman." This compared to the glamourized versions I see in fanfiction and film where everything is perfect! Oh, of course I see the point of those who will say that "good girls" shouldn't be reading stuff like this, it teaches you too much for your own innocence and makes you wonder whether you will really get satisfactory love-making of your own. It makes you really pity those who don't know what they're missing, and makes you wonder if you have the adequate physique for this sort of intense pleasure. Oh, I'm sure all they had a point: ignorance is bliss.

I do like the ending: curiously, after so many pages of passion, the ending is about chastity and waiting; something that speaks for the magnitude of true love, I think. After all the whole book shows that (after much sexual frustration) it is possible to experience great passion, which promises to last forever.

A tremendous mental effort to finish, but I'm glad I did.