Although the critical literature today about the novels of D. H. Lawrence is immense, his standing as a short-story writer very high, and his poetry hardly diminishing as an object of critical interest and appreciation, insufficient attention has been given to the travel books. This is a serious oversight, for Lawrence's travel writings represent an important component of his career. They are a pleasure to read — engagingly descriptive, vividly abtruse, and very human. What a bizarre privilege it is to be at the side of the author of The Rainbow and Women in Love as he reacts to a child vomiting during a sea trip (it upset Lawrence and Frieda, but not the child's parents) or to a Fascist police agent trying to force Lawrence to show an J.D. (" 'I want to look at your pass- port.' 'It is in the valise. And why? Why is this?' "). The Lawrence interpreting a Tarquinian wall-painting in the Etruscan tombs, or half-amusedly dramatizing the remorseless efficiency of the Sardinian bus driver that he names after Charlotte Bronte, Mr. Rochester, is also the iconoclastic artist who in a late novella rather overtly implied that the resurrection is (or includes) an erection, and in the posthumous Apocalypse, that heaven is on this earth or nowhere.



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