Sons and Lovers (Wordsworth Classics)

Sons and Lovers (Wordsworth Classics)

D. H. Lawrence

Language: English

Pages: 400

ISBN: 1853260479

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


This semi-autobiographical novel explores the emotional conflicts through the protagonist, Paul Morel, and the suffocating relationships with a demanding mother and two very different lovers. It is a pre-Freudian exploration of love and possessiveness.

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his hand. “They are quite hot—I think we frightened her off them,” he said. “Ay, poor thing!” said Mrs. Leivers. Miriam could not help touching the eggs, and his hand which, it seemed to her, cradled them so well. “Isn’t it a strange warmth!” she murmured, to get near him. “Blood heat,” he answered. She watched him putting them back, his body pressed against the hedge, his arm reaching slowly through the thorns, his hand folded carefully over the eggs. He was concentrated on the act. Seeing

remember, but it was a cruelty to her. She wanted to touch his chest. She knew exactly how his breast was shapen under the waistcoat, and she wanted to touch it. It maddened her to hear his mechanical voice giving orders about the work. She wanted to break through the sham of it, smash the trivial coating of business which covered him with hardness, get at the man again; but she was afraid, and before she could feel one touch of his warmth he was gone, and she ached again. He knew that she was

had meant nothing to her. She managed to find some meaning in his struggling, abstract speeches. And they were the medium through which she came distinctly at her beloved objects. Another day she sat at sunset whilst he was painting some pine-trees which caught the red glare from the west. He had been quiet. “There you are!” he said suddenly. “I wanted that. Now, look at them and tell me, are they pine trunks or are they red coals, standing-up pieces of fire in that darkness? There’s God’s

Paul’s position. But Mrs. Dawes was separated from her husband, and had taken up Women’s Rights.2 She was supposed to be clever. It interested Paul. Baxter Dawes he knew and disliked. The smith was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two. He came occasionally through Paul’s corner—a big, well-set man, also striking to look at, and handsome. There was a peculiar similarity between himself and his wife. He had the same white skin, with a clear, golden tinge. His hair was of soft brown, his moustache was

is late—but we can read just a little,” she pleaded. She was really getting now the food for her life during the next week. He made her copy Baudelaire’s “Le Balcon.”11 Then he read it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growing almost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showing his teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She could not

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