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654 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1913
Though often these passages are annoyingly indistinct and, for all their spiritual beauty, difficult to get through, the reader remembers the sense of them years later. They stick to you, like pollen on a cheek, a sense of mystery, a sense of the wonderful and the unknown. It is this sense, frustratingly unnameble, that was Lawrence's genius and his legacy to letters.
But as her sons grow up, she selects them as lovers--first the eldest, then the second. These sons are urged into life by their reciprocal love of their mother...but when they come to manhood, they can't love, because their mother is the strongest power in their lives...
But he was white to the lips, and their eyes as they looked at each other understood. Her eyes were blue--such a wonderful forget-me-not blue! He felt as if only they had been of a different color he could have borne it better. His heart seemed to be ripping slowly in his breast. He kneeled there, holding her hand, and neither said anything.
Her shoes were clogged with red earth. It was hard for her. He frowned. At last he caught her hand, and she stood beside him. The cliff rose above them and fell away below. Her colour was up, her eyes flashed. He looked at the big drop below them.That it is, and here's a great book about it.
"It's risky," he said, "or messy, at any rate."