Friday, January 14, 2022

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

from St. Mawr by D. H. Lawrence:

“I don't want intimacy, mother. I'm too tired of it all. I love St. Mawr because he isn't intimate. He stands where one can't get at him. And he burns with life. And where does his life come from, to him? That's the mystery . That great burning life in him, which never is dead. Most men have a deadness in them that frightens me so, because of my own deadness. Why can't men get their life straight, like St. Mawr, and then think? Why can't they think quick, mother: quick as a woman: only farther than we do? Why isn't men's thinking quick like fire, mother? Why is it so slow, so dead, so deadly dull?”

“I can't tell you, Louise. My own opinion of the men of today has grown very small. But I can live in spite of it.”

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