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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 Grey 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 grassland on either side, where only the unopposed wind and the great clouds mattered, where even the little grasses bent to one another indifferent of any traveller. The…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
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 Grey 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 grassland on either side, where only the unopposed wind and the great clouds mattered, where even the little grasses bent to one another indifferent of any traveller. The abandoned road used to seem clean and firm. Cyril Mersham stopped to look round and to 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 peewits, 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. Mersham laboured forwards, the earth sucking and smacking at his feet. In front the Coney Grey 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...


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Autorenporträt
David Herbert Lawrence was born on September 11, 1885. He was not only an important but also disputable English essayist of the 20th century. He was one of the main scholars of English Modernism. Lawrence was a skilled author who wrote several books, brief tales, sonnets, plays, papers, travel guides, artistic creations, interpretations, abstract analyses, and individual letters. Lawrence is remembered today for stretching the boundaries beyond what was regarded as satisfactory in abstract fiction whereas different Modernists such as Joyce and Woolf were content to radicalize the types of writing, Lawrence focused on extending the scope of the artistic topic. Specifically, he consolidated Freudian therapy, forthright portrayals of sexuality, and enchanted strict subjects into his works that were very unexpected and fresh to the crowds of his time. Even though he is regarded as one of the main figures in the early history of Modernism, Lawrence stays questionable. His monstrous result is famously lopsided and he never lived to the point of refining his views into reasonable thoughts. Different pundits mock Lawrence unequivocally and it is the case that a portion of his lesser works was composed more to stun than to illuminate the brain with the brightness of workmanship genuinely. Regardless, Lawrence was a virtuoso of the greatest request, and his most modern sonnets and books are among the most persuasive works of 20th-century writing.