foliage on the front.
But in the biography I’d been reading, which is by John Worthen, Worthen says that after Frieda died, Ravagli announced: ‘I threw away the DH cinders.’ He’d had him exhumed and burned as instructed,
he claimed, but then he’d dumped the ashes – maybe in Marseilles, Worthen thinks, maybe at the harbour, into the sea. When he got back to New York, Ravagli filled the vase with the ashes of God knows what or who. He gave it to Frieda, who buried it with honours and died believing she’d be being buried next to what was left of Lawrence.
Wikipedia, too, seems to suggest that the ashes in that shrine are actually Lawrence’s.
Who knows? Maybe they are.
But whether they are or they aren’t, imagine the husband, faithful and lying, seething, triumphant, steady in deception for twenty whole years till she dies. Imagine his foul understandable need, his satisfaction, changing DH Lawrence to DH cinders.
Imagine the ashes of Lawrence shaken into the air, dissolving in the ocean.
‘Fish, oh Fish, / So little matters!’
That’s from the poem called Fish. In another poem he calls the mosquito he’s hunting ‘Monsieur’, then ‘Winged Victory’. ‘Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you?’ In another he declares that for his part he prefers his heart to be broken, cracked open like a pomegranate spilling its red seeds. In one of his most famous, he watches a snake drink at a waterhole then throws a log at it to show it who’s boss. The moment he does this he understands his own pettiness; he knows he’s cheated himself.
Sexual intercourse began in 1963 because of him. Literary merit went to court and won because of him. Class in the English novel radically shifted because of him. His mother, poor, ruined by work, dirt and poverty, could be delighted by a tuppenny bunch of spring flowers; at least that’s what Frieda says in an article she wrote in 1955 for the New Statesman, where she’s responding to a newly published 1950s biography of Lawrence which, according to her, is full of laughable untruths and inaccuracies. ‘There is nothing to save, now all is lost, / but a tiny core of stillness in the heart / like the eye of a violet.’ That’s from a poem called Nothing to Save. ‘High in the sky a star seemed to be walking. It was an aeroplane with a light. Its buzz rattled above. Not a space, not a speck of this country that wasn’t humanized, occupied by the human claim. Not even the sky.’ That’s from St Mawr, a novel about how human beings will never be able to be fully natural or free while they give in to civilization’s pressures and expectations, also about how women and stallions will never understand each other, especially when the woman is handicapped by being clever.
His clever friend Katherine Mansfield suggested to him that he call the cottage he was living in The Phallus. Her letters and notebooks are full of her anger and frustration at him. At the same time she typically writes this kind of thing in her letters to friends. ‘He is the only writer living whom I really
profoundly care for. It seems to me whatever he writes, no matter how much one may “disagree” is important. And after all even what one objects to is a
sign of life
in him.’ And: ‘what makes Lawrence a
real
writer is his passion. Without passion one writes in the air or on the sands of the seashore.’
He himself wrote this in a letter in 1927 to Gertie Cooper, a friend and neighbour from his home in the north of England who was about to start treatment for tuberculosis, from which he also suffered and which killed him in the end: ‘while we live we must be game. And when we come to die, we’ll die game too.’ There’s a fury, a burning energy associated with TB suffering. Some see it as one of the driving forces of Lawrence’s temperament and his writing. The same could be said for a writer like Mansfield, who also died far too young of the same condition, a condition
But in the biography I’d been reading, which is by John Worthen, Worthen says that after Frieda died, Ravagli announced: ‘I threw away the DH cinders.’ He’d had him exhumed and burned as instructed,
he claimed, but then he’d dumped the ashes – maybe in Marseilles, Worthen thinks, maybe at the harbour, into the sea. When he got back to New York, Ravagli filled the vase with the ashes of God knows what or who. He gave it to Frieda, who buried it with honours and died believing she’d be being buried next to what was left of Lawrence.
Wikipedia, too, seems to suggest that the ashes in that shrine are actually Lawrence’s.
Who knows? Maybe they are.
But whether they are or they aren’t, imagine the husband, faithful and lying, seething, triumphant, steady in deception for twenty whole years till she dies. Imagine his foul understandable need, his satisfaction, changing DH Lawrence to DH cinders.
Imagine the ashes of Lawrence shaken into the air, dissolving in the ocean.
‘Fish, oh Fish, / So little matters!’
That’s from the poem called Fish. In another poem he calls the mosquito he’s hunting ‘Monsieur’, then ‘Winged Victory’. ‘Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you?’ In another he declares that for his part he prefers his heart to be broken, cracked open like a pomegranate spilling its red seeds. In one of his most famous, he watches a snake drink at a waterhole then throws a log at it to show it who’s boss. The moment he does this he understands his own pettiness; he knows he’s cheated himself.
Sexual intercourse began in 1963 because of him. Literary merit went to court and won because of him. Class in the English novel radically shifted because of him. His mother, poor, ruined by work, dirt and poverty, could be delighted by a tuppenny bunch of spring flowers; at least that’s what Frieda says in an article she wrote in 1955 for the New Statesman, where she’s responding to a newly published 1950s biography of Lawrence which, according to her, is full of laughable untruths and inaccuracies. ‘There is nothing to save, now all is lost, / but a tiny core of stillness in the heart / like the eye of a violet.’ That’s from a poem called Nothing to Save. ‘High in the sky a star seemed to be walking. It was an aeroplane with a light. Its buzz rattled above. Not a space, not a speck of this country that wasn’t humanized, occupied by the human claim. Not even the sky.’ That’s from St Mawr, a novel about how human beings will never be able to be fully natural or free while they give in to civilization’s pressures and expectations, also about how women and stallions will never understand each other, especially when the woman is handicapped by being clever.
His clever friend Katherine Mansfield suggested to him that he call the cottage he was living in The Phallus. Her letters and notebooks are full of her anger and frustration at him. At the same time she typically writes this kind of thing in her letters to friends. ‘He is the only writer living whom I really
profoundly care for. It seems to me whatever he writes, no matter how much one may “disagree” is important. And after all even what one objects to is a
sign of life
in him.’ And: ‘what makes Lawrence a
real
writer is his passion. Without passion one writes in the air or on the sands of the seashore.’
He himself wrote this in a letter in 1927 to Gertie Cooper, a friend and neighbour from his home in the north of England who was about to start treatment for tuberculosis, from which he also suffered and which killed him in the end: ‘while we live we must be game. And when we come to die, we’ll die game too.’ There’s a fury, a burning energy associated with TB suffering. Some see it as one of the driving forces of Lawrence’s temperament and his writing. The same could be said for a writer like Mansfield, who also died far too young of the same condition, a condition
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