Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           They’rethemingiestsetofladylikesnipeeverinvented:fullofconceitofthemselves,frightenedeveniftheirboot-lacesaren’tcorrect,rottenashighgame,andalwaysintheright.That’swhatfinishesmeup.Kow-tow,kow-tow,arse-lickingtilltheirtonguesaretough:yetthey’realwaysintheright.Prigsontopofeverything.Prigs!Agenerationofladylikeprigswithhalfaballeach--’

           Connielaughed.Therainwasrushingdown.

           ’Hehatedthem!’

           ’No,’saidhe.’Hedidn’tbother.Hejustdislikedthem.There’sadifference.Because,ashesaid,theTommiesaregettingjustaspriggishandhalf-balledandnarrow-gutted.It’sthefateofmankind,togothatway.’

           ’Thecommonpeopletoo,theworkingpeople?’

           ’Allthelot.Theirspunkisgonedead.Motor-carsandcinemasandaeroplanessuckthatlastbitoutofthem.Itellyou,everygenerationbreedsamorerabbitygeneration,withindiarubbertubingforgutsandtinlegsandtinfaces.Tinpeople!It’sallasteadysortofbolshevismjustkillingoffthehumanthing,andworshippingthemechanicalthing.Money,money,money!Allthemodernlotgettheirrealkickoutofkillingtheoldhumanfeelingoutofman,makingmincemeatoftheoldAdamandtheoldEve.They’reallalike.Theworldisallalike:killoffthehumanreality,aquidforeveryforeskin,twoquidforeachpairofballs.Whatiscuntbutmachine-fucking!--It’sallalike.Pay’emmoneytocutofftheworld’scock.Paymoney,money,moneytothemthatwilltakespunkoutofmankind,andleave’emalllittletwiddlingmachines.