0 stars
First Sentence: I once told you, Jeffers, about the time I met the devil on a train leaving Paris, and about how after that meeting the evil that usually lies undisturbed beneath the surface of things rose up and disgorged itself over every part of life.
Thoughts: This was overwritten pretentious crap. The end.
Oh, you want more? You do know you’re asking me to go on a full-on rant here. That’s what you want? Okay, you asked for it.
See that first sentence up there? Forget it because the whole meeting the devil on a train in Paris goes absolutely nowhere. In fact, the first five or so pages could be neatly cut away from the book and no one would notice the difference because the only thing that happens that does have anything to do with the rest of the story is where the narrator gets off the train and goes to an art gallery where she first encounters L’s paintings. She likes his work and strikes up a correspondence with him.
Who is the narrator? M. Not the Peter Lorre M from the vastly superior movie, alas. In fact, why don’t you go watch that movie instead of reading this book. It’s a better way to spend your time.
Why are these people referred to only by their initial letter? The other characters have names. They’re Justine, Kurt, Tony, and Brett. (I don’t count Jeffers because he’s only a name in M’s endless monologues.) Apparently M and L are references to the work this book was based on, Mabel Dodge Luhan’s book about the time T.H. Lawrence spent at her place in Taos, New Mexico.
This goes a long way towards explaining the pretentiousness. I hate hate HATE T.H. Lawrence with the fire of a thousand imploding supernovas. I only managed to get through all of Lady Chatterley’s Lover because a) I wanted to see what all the fuss was about and b) I was much younger then and had more patience for crap because it was considered Literary. I still don’t know what all the fuss was about because it was a boring paean to the penis. I’ve tried reading some of his other books but I gave up on all of them because of the overbearing pomposity. I really don’t know who I hate more, Lawrence or Henry Miller. That is a difficult question that will require much thought and meditation. Not any of their books, though because NIE WIEDER. I have much better things to waste my time on, like finishing this rant.
All the things I hate most about Lawrence’s works are on full display here: the pointless pontificating; everything, even the most minor detail, being a Big Deal of Great Import; the nasty unlikable characters; the misogyny. Oh, the misogyny. The description wants you to think this is some sort of feminist novel but believe me it is not. In fact, the description itself should have warned me of what was to come.
…a study of female fate and male privilege, of the geometries of human relationships, and of the struggle to live morally in the intersecting spaces of our internal and external worlds.
That’s a lot of words wasted to say absolutely nothing. These are the kinds of things you say when you’re high. Or if you’re a pseudo-intellectual trying to make people think you’re smarter than everyone else in the room. I know English has the largest vocabulary of any language, but let’s not waste words like this. Plain language is best for easy communication.
And in plain language I tell you: this book suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.
The Eclectic Reviewer 