Любовник леди Чаттерлей

           Butthedayafter,allthebrilliantwordsseemedlikedeadleaves,crumplingupandturningtopowder,meaningreallynothing,blownawayonanygustofwind.Theywerenottheleafywordsofaneffectivelife,youngwithenergyandbelongingtothetree.Theywerethehostsoffallenleavesofalifethatisineffectual.

           Soitseemedtohereverywhere.ThecolliersatTevershallweretalkingagainofastrike,anditseemedtoConniethereagainitwasnotamanifestationofenergy,itwasthebruiseofthewarthathadbeeninabeyance,slowlyrisingtothesurfaceandcreatingthegreatacheofunrest,andstuporofdiscontent.Thebruisewasdeep,deep,deep...thebruiseofthefalseinhumanwar.Itwouldtakemanyyearsforthelivingbloodofthegenerationstodissolvethevastblackclotofbruisedblood,deepinsidetheirsoulsandbodies.Anditwouldneedanewhope.

           PoorConnie!AstheyearsdrewonitwasthefearofnothingnessInherlifethataffectedher.Clifford’smentallifeandhersgraduallybegantofeellikenothingness.Theirmarriage,theirintegratedlifebasedonahabitofintimacy,thathetalkedabout:thereweredayswhenitallbecameutterlyblankandnothing.Itwaswords,justsomanywords.Theonlyrealitywasnothingness,andoveritahypocrisyofwords.

           TherewasClifford’ssuccess:thebitch-goddess!Itwastruehewasalmostfamous,andhisbooksbroughthiminathousandpounds.Hisphotographappearedeverywhere.Therewasabustofhiminoneofthegalleries,andaportraitofhimintwogalleries.Heseemedthemostmodernofmodernvoices.