Monday, January 10, 2022

the last book I ever read (D. H. Lawrence's St. Mawr, excerpt one)

from St. Mawr by D. H. Lawrence:

They couldn't get away from one another, even though in the course of their rather restrained correspondence he informed her that he was “probably” marrying a very dear girl, friend of his childhood, only daughter of one of the oldest families in Victoria. Not saying much.

He didn't commit the probability, but reappeared in Paris, wanting to paint his head off, terribly inspired by Cezanne and by old Renoir. He dined at the Rotonde with Lou and Mrs. Witt, who, with her queer democratic New Orleans sort of conceit, looked round the drinking-hall with savage contempt, and at Rico as part of the show. “Certainly, ” she said, " when these people here have got any money, they fall in love on a full stomach. And when they've got no money , they fall in love with a full pocket. I never was in a more disgusting place. They take their love like some people take after-dinner pills.”

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