David Herbert Richards Lawrence (11 September 1885 - 2 March 1930) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter who published as D. H. Lawrence. His collected works represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them, Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. -wikipedia
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David Herbert Richards Lawrence (11 September 1885 - 2 March 1930) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter who published as D. H. Lawrence. His collected works represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them, Lawrence confronts issues relating to emotional health and vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. -wikipedia
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If you enjoy DH Lawrence, or like me are a grudging fan, you will enjoy this book. I bought it, as I?m sure many do, to take with me on a trip to the island, and if I had been looking for a comprehensive and objective account of the place then I would have been sorely disappointed. In contrast with his loftier (and more pretentious) depictions of other cultures, he has written a very personal, honest and intimate record of his travels. He seems to be in a bad mood most of the time, which serves to render the unapologetic arrogance and prejudices of a British male attitude in the 1920s with a lack of feigned objectivity, in a way that makes it more of an interesting study in itself than a wearisome bore; it is also very entertaining. I can only hope that the ?Queen Bee? accompanying him could hold her own as well as he makes out!
Some of his opinions, for example about the potential loss of individual traditions of dress in different cultures, are truly interesting insights into the time and place, as well as offering a retrospective window on the present. And then, in describing their frustrations, their discomfort in a cold inn; their little struggles, their comforts, he has written the most truthful, and therefore least arrogant description of the experience of being on holiday that I have read.
And if all of that is not of interest,still his descriptions of places and of people are unsurpassed. In passages layered impressionistically, he captures such a clarity of light, the tensions and reliefs of every gathering; in actions and looks writes the self of a person as if they were breathing beside you, so vividly that it is as if these are memories that you have gathered yourself. I feel as if I have visited Sardinia twice, in two different eras. And Sicily, although it is given so little space.
