Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious
Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and other essays
Apocalypse and the Writings on Revelation
The Savage Pilgrimage: Biography of D. H. Lawrence by Catherine Carswell
Novels
The White Peacock
Chapter 1. The People of Nethermere
Chapter 3. A Vendor of Visions
Chapter 6. The Education of George
Chapter 7. Lettie Pulls Down the Small Gold Grapes
Chapter 8. The Riot of Christmas
Chapter 9. Lettie Comes of Age
Chapter 1. Strange Blossoms and Strange New Budding
Chapter 3. The Irony of Inspired Moments
Chapter 4. Kiss when She’s Ripe for Tears
Chapter 5. An Arrow from the Impatient God
Chapter 7. The Fascination of the Forbidden Apple
Chapter 8. A Poem of Friendship
Chapter 9. Pastorals and Peonies
Chapter 1. A New Start in Life
Chapter 2. Puffs of Wind in the Sail
Chapter 3. The First Pages of Several Romances
Chapter 4. Domestic Life at the Ram
Chapter 5. The Dominant Motif of Suffering
Chapter 8. A Prospect Among the Marshes of Lethe
PART ONE
Chapter 1
The People of Nethermere
I stood watching the shadowy fish slide through the gloom of the millpond. They were grey, descendants of the silvery things that had darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty. The whole place was gathered in the musing of old age. The thick-piled trees on the far shore were too dark and sober to dally with the sun; the weeds stood crowded and motionless. Not even a little wind flickered the willows of the islets. The water lay softly, intensely still. Only the thin stream falling through the millrace murmured to itself of the tumult of life which had once quickened the valley.
I was almost startled into the water from my perch on the alder roots by a voice saying:
“Well, what is there to look at?” My friend was a young farmer, stoutly built, brown-eyed, with a naturally fair skin burned dark and freckled in patches. He laughed, seeing me start, and looked down at me with lazy curiosity.
“I was thinking the place seemed old, brooding over its past.” He looked at me with a lazy indulgent smile, and lay down on his back on the bank, saying:
“It’s all right for a doss — here.”
“Your life is nothing else but a doss. I shall laugh when somebody jerks you awake,” I replied.
He smiled comfortably and put his hands over his eyes because of the light.
“Why shall you laugh?” he drawled.
“Because you’ll be amusing,” said I.
We were silent for a long time, when he rolled over and began to poke with his finger in the bank.
“I thought,” he said in