Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Theyweresointimate,andutterlyoutoftouch.

           Connieguessed,however,thatherfatherhadsaidsomething,andthatsomethingwasinClifford’smind.Sheknewthathedidn’tmindwhethersheweredemi-viergeordemi-monde,solongashedidn’tabsolutelyknow,andwasn’tmadetosee.Whattheeyedoesn’tseeandtheminddoesn’tknow,doesn’texist.

           ConnieandCliffordhadnowbeennearlytwoyearsatWragby,livingtheirvaguelifeofabsorptioninCliffordandhiswork.Theirinterestshadneverceasedtoflowtogetheroverhiswork.Theytalkedandwrestledinthethroesofcomposition,andfeltasifsomethingwerehappening,reallyhappening,reallyinthevoid.

           Andthusfaritwasalife:inthevoid.Fortherestitwasnon-existence.Wragbywasthere,theservants...butspectral,notreallyexisting.Conniewentforwalksinthepark,andinthewoodsthatjoinedthepark,andenjoyedthesolitudeandthemystery,kickingthebrownleavesofautumn,andpickingtheprimrosesofspring.Butitwasalladream;orratheritwaslikethesimulacrumofreality.Theoak-leavesweretoherlikeoak-leavesseenrufflinginamirror,sheherselfwasafiguresomebodyhadreadabout,pickingprimrosesthatwereonlyshadowsormemories,orwords.Nosubstancetoheroranything...notouch,nocontact!OnlythislifewithClifford,thisendlessspinningofwebsofyarn,oftheminutiaeofconsciousness,thesestoriesSirMalcolmsaidtherewasnothingin,andtheywouldn’tlast.Whyshouldtherebeanythinginthem,whyshouldtheylast?Sufficientuntothedayistheevilthereof.