Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence
A novel with 13 sex scenes that shocked and titillated the world in the 1960s
Woman with green shawl (1927) aesthetic painting by Cyprien Eugene Boulet.
First published privately in 1928, in Florence, Italy, English author D. H. Lawrence's final novel sat quietly in the world of literature until it was released openly in the United Kingdom in 1960 where it became a censorship sensation. The vivid content included explicitly described sexual encounters, then-unprintable profane words and the emotional relationship between a working-class man and an upper-class woman. Outrageous. The novel caused such an uproar that it even earned an obscenity trial against the publisher Penguin Books. The publisher won, of course, and the book quickly sold three million copies. The book was banned for several years in many countries but the people had spoken – they wanted Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We recommend reading the novel to see what all the fuss was about. In the meantime, enjoy this short and spicy excerpt.
For the first time he looked straight at her, and into her eyes.
"I don't jeer at you," he said.
As he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark, quite dark, the pupil dilating.
"Don't you care about a' the risk?" he asked in a husky voice. "You should care. Don't care when it's too late!"
There was a curious warning pleading in his voice.
"But I've nothing to lose," she said fretfully. "If you knew what it is, you'd think I'd be glad to lose it. But are you afraid for yourself?"
"Ay!" he said briefly. "I am. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid o' things."
"What things?" she asked.
He gave a curious backward jerk of his head, indicating the outer world.
"Things! Everybody! The lot of 'em."
Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face.
"Nay, I don't care," he said. "Let's have it, an' damn the rest. But if you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it!"
"Don't put me off," she pleaded.
He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly.
"Let me come in then," he said softly. "An' take off your mackintosh."
He hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather jacket, and reached for the blankets.
"I brought another blanket," he said, "so we can put one over us if we like."
"I can't stay long," she said. "Dinner is half-past seven."
He looked at her swiftly, then at his watch.
"All right," he said.
He shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp.
"One time we'll have a long time," he said.
He put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head. Then he sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him, holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he found her.
Under her frail petticoat she was naked.
"Eh! what it is to touch thee!" he said, as his finger caressed the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. He put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again. And again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him. She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it. And when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact, so much deeper than the beauty of wisdom. She felt the glide of his cheek on her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his moustache and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to quiver. Far down in her she felt a new stirring, a new nakedness emerging. And she was half afraid. Half she wished he would not caress her so. He was encompassing her somehow. Yet she was waiting, waiting.
And when he came into her, with an intensification of relief and consummation, that was pure peace to him, still she was waiting. She felt herself a little left out. And she knew, partly it was her own fault. She willed herself into this separateness. Now perhaps she was condemned to it. She lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deepsunk intentness, the sudden quiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slowsubsiding thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridiculous. If you were a woman, and apart in all the business, surely that thrusting of the man's buttocks was supremely ridiculous. Surely the man was intensely ridiculous in this posture and this act!
But she lay still, without recoil. Even, when he had finished, she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her eyes.
He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on her with a close, undoubting warmth.
"Are ter cold?" he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant.
"No! But I must go," she said gently.
He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.
He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with him.
"I must go," she repeated.
He lifted himself, kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern.
Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence, 1928
