D. H. Lawrence

I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.

My drawing of D.H. Lawrence, from around 2013. It’s hard to think of a contemporary comparison – someone who is highly regarded for what he writes but when encountered in person reveals themselves to be an insufferable arsehole. These days, such arseholes are painfully evident from within what they write, and you all know of whom I speak. Lawrence packed a lot into his short life, but it’s not surprising that he died relatively young. You can’t sustain that level of simmering hostility against the universe without burning out. Believe me, I’ve tried. At some point, you realise it’s not doing you any good and you start to mellow. Would we have wanted to see a “mellow” Lawrence? Probably not.

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