D.H. Lawrence The Trespasser (1912)
This was Lawrence's second novel, and the one with the reputation of being his worst, seemingly on the grounds of nothing much happening in physical terms and of being derived from Helen Corke's diary rather than Lawrence's direct experience. Helen Corke was a colleague with whom Lawrence worked as a school teacher in Croydon, and I gather our boy would have quite liked to have had sexual intercourse with her, but it wasn't to be; so doubtless some frustration informs this novel, or - more worrying still - it may even have been Dave trying to show that he really, really, really understood - not that any of this necessarily works to the detriment of the novel in my view. Helen had been having an affair with a married music teacher. They went off to the Isle of Wight together for an extended naughty weekend, following which the gentleman topped himself immediately following his resumption of married life. Corke recorded this much in her diary, and then Lawrence worked his magic, expanding and embellishing.
The most obvious flaw of The Trespasser is that not much happens for a long time, it being primarily focussed on Helena and Siegmund's stay on the Isle of Wight, which mostly gushes with emotion seasoned by the awareness that the two of them are not particularly well matched, and that their time together is limited. In other words, it isn't anything which is likely to survive in the real world. This section, which dominates the book, drags a little in places, but on the other hand, it's not a particularly long book so the repetition doesn't really have space in which to become a nuisance; and the language is meanwhile nevertheless engaging, giving rich and poetic description of nature, the island, and love with particular emphasis on flowers as a recurring motif. There's almost certainly some shagging going on in here, but the language is of such florid composition that it's difficult to tell, which is probably for the best as it would doubtless disrupt the flow, which seems stylistically rooted in Symbolist literature, or at very least definitively belongs to that era.
This was Lawrence's second novel, and the one with the reputation of being his worst, seemingly on the grounds of nothing much happening in physical terms and of being derived from Helen Corke's diary rather than Lawrence's direct experience. Helen Corke was a colleague with whom Lawrence worked as a school teacher in Croydon, and I gather our boy would have quite liked to have had sexual intercourse with her, but it wasn't to be; so doubtless some frustration informs this novel, or - more worrying still - it may even have been Dave trying to show that he really, really, really understood - not that any of this necessarily works to the detriment of the novel in my view. Helen had been having an affair with a married music teacher. They went off to the Isle of Wight together for an extended naughty weekend, following which the gentleman topped himself immediately following his resumption of married life. Corke recorded this much in her diary, and then Lawrence worked his magic, expanding and embellishing.
The most obvious flaw of The Trespasser is that not much happens for a long time, it being primarily focussed on Helena and Siegmund's stay on the Isle of Wight, which mostly gushes with emotion seasoned by the awareness that the two of them are not particularly well matched, and that their time together is limited. In other words, it isn't anything which is likely to survive in the real world. This section, which dominates the book, drags a little in places, but on the other hand, it's not a particularly long book so the repetition doesn't really have space in which to become a nuisance; and the language is meanwhile nevertheless engaging, giving rich and poetic description of nature, the island, and love with particular emphasis on flowers as a recurring motif. There's almost certainly some shagging going on in here, but the language is of such florid composition that it's difficult to tell, which is probably for the best as it would doubtless disrupt the flow, which seems stylistically rooted in Symbolist literature, or at very least definitively belongs to that era.
As he leaned on the Embankment parapet the wonder did not fade, but rather increased. The trams, one after another, floated loftily over the bridge. They went like great burning bees in an endless file into a hive, past those which were drifting dreamily out, while below, on the black, distended water, golden serpents flashed and twisted to and fro.
Ignoring frequent references to Wagner - which were apparently quite trendy at the time, much as are references to the Smiths these days - Lawrence's primary theme here is his fixation with nature as an ideal, something from which we should not stray too far. It underscores the entire narrative, expressed in recurrent references to flowers, the lunar cycle by which we are notionally bound to nature, and quite a lot of sheep. The lovers watch Isle of Wight farmers dipping their flock, inspiring this conversation, for one example:
'In an instant it makes me wish I were a farmer,' he laughed. 'I think every man has a passion for farming at the bottom of his blood. It would be fine to be plain-minded, to see no farther than the end of one's nose, and to own cattle and land.'
'Would it?' asked Helena sceptically.
'If I had a red face and went to sleep as soon as I sat comfortable, I should love it,' he said.
'It amuses me to hear you long to be stupid,' she replied.
'To have a simple, slow-moving mind and an active life is the desideratum.'
'Is it?' she asked ironically.
'I would give anything to be like that,' he said.
'That is, not to be yourself,' she said pointedly.
He laughed without much heartiness.
He laughs because he knows he's fucked, hence the dearth of heartiness, perhaps even because he knows that his aspirations aren't fooling anyone, least of all himself. He returns to London, to marital misery, and hangs himself; and as seems to be the general consensus, this last part of the story is where the novel really finds its feet, possibly due to Lawrence being obliged to imagine that which Helen Corke could not have known. Siegmund's marriage really doesn't seem particularly terrible - which is nice given the frequency with which Lawrence is accused of misogyny - so the inertia which Siegmund finds so loveless and so difficult to endure is down to him rather than the long-suffering Beatrice. He is a trespasser in his own existence.
'Don't look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it's all rind,' said Mr Allport in melancholy mockery. 'Somebody's bitten all the meat out of our slice of moon, and left us nothing but peel.'
'It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell - one portion,' replied Vera.
'Never mind, Miss MacNair,' he said. 'Whoever got the slice found it raw, I think.'
I don't know if The Trespasser is really his worst novel, but if so, then I can think of plenty of writers whose work I might enjoy more were they able to write something as bad as this. It's no masterpiece for sure, but its brevity is its salvation.
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