 D. H. Lawrence, an introduction. For many of us D. H. Lawrence was a schoolboy hero, who can forget sniggering in class at the mention of women in love or Lady Chattel is lover. Lawrence was a talented and nomadic writer, whose novels were passionately received, suppressed at times and generally at odds with establishment values. This of course did not deter him. At his death in 1930, at the young age of 44, he was more often thought of as a pornographer, but in the ensuing years he has come to be more rightly regarded as one of the most imaginative writers these shores have produced. A modern lover. The road was heavy with mud. It was labour to move along it. The old wide way forsaken and grown over with grass used not to be so bad. The farm traffic from Coney Gray must have cut it up. The young man crossed carefully again to the strip of grass on the other side. It was a dreary, out-of-doors track, saved only by low fragments of fence and occasional bushes from the desolation of the large spaces of arable and of grasslands on either side where only the unopposed wind and the great clouds mattered were even the little grasses bent to one another indifferent of any traveller. The abandoned road used to seem clean and firm. Cyril Merchant stopped to look round and bring back old winters to the scene over the ribbed red land and the purple wood. The surface of the field seemed suddenly to lift and break. Something had startled the pee-wits and the fallow flickered over with pink gleams of birds white-breasting the sunset. Then the plovers turned and were gone in the dusk behind. Darkness was issuing out of the earth and clinging to the trunks of the elms which rose like weird statues lessening down the wayside. One laboured forwards the earth sucking and smacking at his feet. In front the Coney Gray farm was piled in shadow on the road. He came near to it and saw the turnips heaped in a fabulous heap up the side of the barn a buttress that rose almost to the eaves and stretched out towards the cart-ruts in the road. Also the pale breasts of the turnips got the sunset and they were innumerable orange glimmers piled in the dusk. The two labourers who were pulping at the foot of the mound stood shadow-like to watch as he passed breathing the sharp scent of turnips. It was all very wonderful and glamorous here in the old places that had seemed so ordinary. Three-quart- Sample complete. Ready to continue?