Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Itwasnotlikesavages:savageshavesubtlerhythms.Itwasnotlikeanimals:animalsmeansomethingwhentheyyell.Itwaslikenothingonearth,anditwascalledsinging.Conniesatandlistenedwithherheartinherboots,asFieldwasfillingpetrol.Whatcouldpossiblybecomeofsuchapeople,apeopleinwhomthelivingintuitivefacultywasdeadasnails,andonlyqueermechanicalyellsanduncannywill-powerremained?

           Acoal-cartwascomingdownhill,clankingintherain.Fieldstartedupwards,pastthebigbutweary-lookingdrapersandclothingshops,thepost-office,intothelittlemarket-placeofforlornspace,whereSamBlackwaspeeringoutofthedooroftheSun,thatcalleditselfaninn,notapub,andwherethecommercialtravellersstayed,andwasbowingtoLadyChatterley’scar.

           Thechurchwasawaytotheleftamongblacktrees.Thecarslidondownhill,pasttheMiners’Arms.IthadalreadypassedtheWellington,theNelson,theThreeTuns,andtheSun,nowitpassedtheMiners’Arms,thentheMechanics’Hall,thenthenewandalmostgaudyMiners’Welfareandso,pastafewnew’villas’,outintotheblackenedroadbetweendarkhedgesanddarkgreenfields,towardsStacksGate.

           Tevershall!ThatwasTevershall!MerrieEngland!Shakespeare’sEngland!No,buttheEnglandoftoday,asConniehadrealizedsinceshehadcometoliveinit.Itwasproducinganewraceofmankind,over-consciousinthemoneyandsocialandpoliticalside,onthespontaneous,intuitivesidedead,butdead.Half-corpses,allofthem:butwithaterribleinsistentconsciousnessintheotherhalf.