Mornings in Mexico

D.H. Lawrence Mornings in Mexico (1927)
In which D.H. Loz indulges his penchant for observation, here in the form of travel writing, specifically a series of autobiographical pieces written presumably contemporaneous to The Plumed Serpent. Unfortunately, as with the novel, he demonstrates an infuriatingly perceptive understanding of how indigenous Mexican religion differs from Christianity whilst somehow simultaneously getting it completely fucking wrong, and getting it so wrong that you have to wonder if he actually had a conversation with anybody who wasn't serving him food or carrying his suitcase. Predictably enough, some Goodreads plum describes this garbage as a lovely little gem of a book meant to be read early on a summer morning on the porch with a cup of coffee at hand, having already opined that Lawrence describes the real Mexico - you know, the Mexico us chavs wouldn't understand. Poetic turns of phrase aside, I find this particular summary weird given that our man spends the first sixty pages metaphorically screaming egg and chips at bewildered Mexican waiters, then screaming it again, louder and slower until the dopey fuckers understand. Of course, they won't understand because they're too stupid, shiftless and uncivilised; apart from the few who get to be noble savages near the end of the book once we're back in New Mexico and among white people with the oogah-boogah dancing provided as entertainment rather than just as part of the daily routine.

I know the man suffered what with his lungs and his marriage to a committed monogamyphobe, but this one is miserable beyond description, and does Lawrence no favours given that the real Mexico isn't actually difficult to find.