D. H. goes on the brief list of authors I can't make heads or tails of. It's all barely repressed homosexual urges and contempt for the working class, and inexplicable emotions being sublimated into frantic descriptions of English countrysides. For descriptions of the emotional life of men and women that have no parallel in reality as I know it, D. H. Lawrence is matched only by Doris Lessing, a writer I have tried my damnedest to understand, I really have. (Perhaps it is the initials?) I read The Golden Notebook twice. But all her characters seem completely insane to me, just as D. H. Lawrence's do. It's just that they're insane and also communist.
D. H. did write a fairly painful poem that I like. I want to say he should have stuck to poetry, but he also wrote that poem about figs that I dislike, so maybe he should have just stuck to that specific poem. He also should have lost the beard.