By Michael Bell
D. H. Lawrence as soon as wrote that 'we don't have any language for the feelings'. The comment testifies to the fight in his novels to precise his refined knowing of the character of being in the course of the intransigent medium of language. Michael Bell argues that Lawrence's retro prestige stems from a failure to understand inside his casual expression the character and complexity of his ontological imaginative and prescient. He lines the evolution of the fight for its articulation during the novels, and appears on the approach within which Lawrence himself made it a wide awake topic in his writing. Embracing during this argument Lawrence's disasters as a author, his rhetorical stridency and in addition his primitivist extremism, Michael Bell creates a robust and clean feel of his actual value as a novelist.
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Additional info for D. H. Lawrence: Language and Being
He has to embody the emotional material dramatically while avoiding a fixed point of view . Hence his method of third-person omniscience at the service of the character's emotional subjectivity . In the work for which he is important, Lawrence's need to relativise the point of view has equal priority with his doctrinal and prophetic absoluteness. For his relativity is not just between characters but between moments and impulses within the same character .
Lawrence: language and being indeed a way of focusing Lawrence's narrative presentation of feeling as well as an expression of her personal bad faith at that moment. That is another reason, perhaps, for the constant flicker of uncertainty in the book as to whether Lawrence has himself fallen under the spell of romantic glamour in a world which seems to offer so little alternative opportunity for emotional fulfilment of that order. But for purposes of the present argument perhaps the most significant aspect of this apparent closeness of the romantic merging to Lawrence's mature ontology is the burden this throws on a capacity for discrimination which has almost no meaning when couched in purely conceptual terms.
Had the world a heart? Was there also deep in the world a great God thudding out waves of life, like a great heart, unconscious? It frightened her. This was the God she knew not, as she knew not this Siegmund. It was so different from the half-shut eyes with black lashes, and the winsome, shapely nose. And the heart of the world, as she heard it, could not be the same as the curling splash of retreat of the sleepy little waves. She listened for Siegmund' s soul, but his heart overheat all other sound, ( The Trespasser, pp.