In several senses of the word, DH Lawrence is a difficult writer – difficult to follow at times, difficult to like at others. There must be many who agree with the young Samuel Beckett, who read Lawrence’s novella St Mawr in 1930, and afterwards wrote in a journal: “lovely things as usual and plenty of rubbish”. Lawrence’s religious language can sound merely religiose, and his attempts to describe the indescribable can lapse into ponderous, melodramatic floridity, as people wince through their wombs, swoon into helplessness, and feel flames of nausea in their bellies.
more from The Guardian here.