Not I, but the Wind

[Viking, $2.75]

MANY people interested in D. H. Lawrence have been looking forward to the book about him which his wife was writing. It has now appeared; and if one contemplated its publication, before knowing what it would be like, with mixed and unsatisfactory feelings, one can only remark, now that it is here for everyone to read, that one’s feelings remain as mixed as ever and have become even more unsatisfactory.

Lawrence has been written about as much as, if not more than, any other figure in contemporary literature. His personality has become public property, and more people are fascinated by him as a human being than are attracted by the excellence of his works. Indeed it is only natural, in an age as pathetically hungry for personal flavor and color as ours, that Lawrence should be a centre of attention. He was a forceful and dominant figure, a bigger man than most of us, and it is good for us to know about him, even if we dislike him or disagree with his convictions.

But this book tells us very little that we did not know before. Half of it is taken up with ninety-one hitherto unpublished letters by Lawrence himself, the most interesting of which are those written to his mother-in-law. They give us few new facts, but they make us realize again that Lawrence was electrically aware, as few people have been, of the confusing world he lived in. The other half of the book consists of some rather fragmentary jottings, arranged in chronological order, by Mrs. Lawrence. Mrs. Lawrence, like so many inexperienced writers of memoirs, lacks either the ability or the desire to develop a given situation; as a result we are hurried from one voyage, or one incident, to another, and we are left with a disconnected and jostled impression. There is not enough detail, and we feel that we are dealing with an amateurish piece of work. Mrs. Lawrence has fallen between two stools; she has been too discreet to satisfy the morbidly curious, and she has not been discreet enough to satisfy those who believe that personal relations should be conducted in privacy.

I have, perhaps, been too harsh with this simple, and in some ways touching, narrative; there are a few details which add to our knowledge of Lawrence — the scene at the end, for example, where Lawrence’s last illness and death are described, is clearly and movingly told. And, sketchy as the book is, one gets an impression of fairness and honesty which is attractive. But on the whole it is a disappointment, for it fails to give us a clear picture of either Lawrence or the author, and the other books about Lawrence are nearly all better than this one.

THEODORE SPENCER