It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen. She married Clifford Chatterley in 1917, when he was home for a month on leave. Then he went back to Flanders: to be shipped over to England again six months later, more or less in bits.
How many times have I said some- thing I thought innocent—or even complimentary—only to have it heard by my beloved as something along the lines of “I wish you would turn into a pizza.” To see how this plays out in literature, we need only turn to one of the saucier of all highbrow novels, .There’s enough sex in Lawrence’s scandalous masterwork that I could find ten—yes, ten—things said after sex that you really wouldn’t want to say today.Some are said by men, some are said by women, but both sexes should avoid pretty much all of them.So without further ado, and in the order in which they appear in the book, here they go: Lady Chatterley’s first lover, Michaelis, the colleague of her paralyzed husband (who, admittedly, eventually encourages her to go get pregnant by someone else), is your basic well-dressed dandy.He visits the Chatterley home, he and the lady get busy, he finishes pretty quickly each time they get together, but the ladyship (as a good D. Lawrence heroine) keeps him inside of her and brings herself to an orgasm by rubbing herself on his thighs.The two girls, therefore, were from an early age not the least daunted by either art or ideal politics. They were at once cosmopolitan and provincial, with the cosmopolitan provincialism of art that goes with pure social ideals. Her presence, for some reason, made him feel safe, and free to do the things he was occupied with.
They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. Then with the same eyes darkened with another flame of consciousness, almost like sleep, he looked at her. He was a great deal at the pits, and wrestling in spirit with the almost hopeless problems of getting out his coal in the most economical fashion and then selling it when he'd got it out.
But despite the lack of overt nudity, BBC bosses hope their new version, which features three sexual encounters between Constance and Mellors, will deliver its own erotic charge.
And while naked flesh may not be in abundance, there is some X-rated language.
Be even more thankful that even if you fall down on your job, she can handle matters herself!
And whatever you do, don’t make her self-conscious about it.
This was more or less Constance Chatterley's position. Constance, his wife, was then twenty-three years old, and he was twenty-nine. He didn't die, and the bits seemed to grow together again. Then he was pronounced a cure, and could return to life again, with the lower half of his body, from the hips down, paralysed for ever. They returned, Clifford and Constance, to his home, Wragby Hall, the family 'seat'. Crippled for ever, knowing he could never have any children, Clifford came home to the smoky Midlands to keep the Chatterley name alive while he could. He could wheel himself about in a wheeled chair, and he had a bath-chair with a small motor attachment, so he could drive himself slowly round the garden and into the fine melancholy park, of which he was really so proud, though he pretended to be flippant about it. Only lend me a comb.' She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already.