the exaltation of perversity

"He felt the devil twisting his tail, and pretended it was the angels smiling on him.

 Loc. 5891-92

And then he would put his hand into her bosom and feel her breasts, and kiss them in exaltation, the exaltation of perversity, of being a child when he was a man.

 Loc. 5920-21 

the perverse and literal rendering of “except ye become again as a little child.”

 Loc. 5923-24

When he was out among men, seeking his own ends, and “making good” his colliery workings, he had an almost uncanny shrewdness, hardness, and a straight sharp punch. It was as if his very passivity and prostitution to the Magna Mater gave him insight into material business affairs, and lent him a certain remarkable inhuman force. The wallowing in private emotion, the utter abasement of his manly self, seemed to lend him a second nature, cold, almost visionary, business-clever. In business he was quite inhuman."

Loc. 5928-32

for these industrial masses.

"Money poisons you when you’ve got it, and starves you when you haven’t.

  Loc. 6094

I feel the devil in the air, and he’ll try to get us. Or not the devil, Mammon: which I think, after all, is only the mass-will of people, wanting money and hating life. Anyhow I feel great grasping white hands in the air, wanting to get hold of the throat of anybody who tries to live, to live beyond money, and squeeze the life out. There’s a bad time coming. There’s a bad time coming, boys, there’s a bad time coming! If things go on as they are, there’s nothing lies in the future but death and destruction, for these industrial masses."

Loc. 6097-6101

the little flame

"A man has to fend and fettle for the best, and then trust in something beyond himself You can’t insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it. So I believe in the little flame between us.

 Loc. 6104-6

My soul softly flaps in the little pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked into being between the sun and the earth. But it’s a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause.

 

John Thomas says good night to lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.”"

Loc. 6115-16

                                      D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover.                                                          

“enjoying oneself!”

"But she was not happy in London. The people seemed so spectral and blank. They had no alive happiness, no matter how brisk and good-looking they were. It was all barren. And Connie had a woman’s blind craving for happiness, to be assured of happiness. In Paris at any rate she felt a bit of sensuality still. But what a weary, tired worn-out sensuality. Worn-out for lack of tenderness. Oh! Paris was sad. One of the saddest towns: weary of its now-mechanical sensuality, weary of the tension of money, money, money, weary even of resentment and conceit, just weary to death, and still not sufficiently Americanized or Londonized to hide the weariness under a mechanical jig-jig-jig! Ah, these manly he-men, these flaneurs, these oglers, these eaters of good dinners! How weary they were! Weary, worn-out for lack of a little tenderness given and taken. The efficient, sometimes charming women knew a thing or two about the sensual realities: they had that pull over their jigging English sisters. But they knew even less of tenderness. Dry, with the endless dry tension of will, they too were wearing out. The human world was just getting worn out. Perhaps it would turn fiercely destructive. A sort of anarchy! Clifford and his conservative anarchy! Perhaps it wouldn’t be conservative much longer. Perhaps it would develop into a very radical anarchy.

Loc. 5219-28    

As for people! people were all alike, with very little differences. They all wanted to get money out of you: or, if they were travellers, they wanted to get enjoyment, perforce, like squeezing blood out of a stone. Poor mountains! poor landscape! it all had to be squeezed and squeezed and squeezed again, to provide a thrill, to provide enjoyment. What did people mean, with their simply determined enjoying of themselves?

Loc. 5239-42   

“enjoying oneself!” Another modern form of sickness."

Loc. 5248  

though sun-cooked is more appropriate to the look of the mass of human flesh. It was pleasant in a way. It was almost enjoyment. But anyhow, with all the cocktails, all the lying in warmish water and sun-bathing on hot sand in hot sun, jazzing with your stomach up against some fellow in the warm nights, cooling off with ices, it was a complete narcotic. And that was what they all wanted, a drug: the slow water, a drug; the sun, a drug; jazz, a drug; cigarettes, cocktails, ices, vermouth. To be drugged! Enjoyment! Enjoyment!

Loc. 5306-10 

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover.                                                                                          

William Henry Hunt, Primroses and Bird's Nest - c. 1840

Por sugestão de D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, cap. 11, onde se pode ler: "so in the lumber room there were bad Sir Edwin Landseers and pathetic William Henry Hunt byrds' nests".

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, (1928)

OURS IS ESSENTIALLY A tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habits, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

 Loc. 550-51 

...

In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous: certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the army or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree. And as far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they were ridiculous too.

Loc. 636-38

...

Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful, but why kick? You couldn’t kick it away. It just went on. Life, like all the rest! On the low dark ceiling of cloud at night red blotches burned and quavered, dappling and swelling and contracting, like burns that give pain. It was the furnaces. At first they fascinated Connie with a sort of horror; she felt she was living underground. Then she got used to them. And in the morning it rained.

Loc. 692-95 

...

What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.

Loc. 778-79

...

The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed, snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis’ heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitch-goddess Success.

Loc. 836-38

...

Oh, you’re quite right, you’re quite right! The life of the mind needs a comfortable house and decent cooking. You’re quite right. It even needs posterity. But it all hinges on the instinct for success. That is the pivot on which all things turn.” 

Loc. 1032-34 

...

The only thing that is a unit, non-organic, composed of many different, and equally essential parts, is the machine. Each man a machine-part, and the driving power of the machine, hate ... hate of the bourgeois. That, to me, is Bolshevism.”

Loc. 1143-45

...

Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.

Loc. 1256-57

...

How could one say Yes? For years and years? The little yes, gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word? Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yes’s and no’s! Like the straying of butterflies.

Loc. 1275-76

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover.                                                                                          

"A cada dia o seu próprio mal", Mateus 6:34

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality."

  D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, loc.778.