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D. H. Lawrence’s poem “The Red Wolf” and contexts of reading: here is also elsewhere

Barnard Turner “Fashions change; the current neglect of Lawrence will not prevail.”

(Bloom, Genius 705) In a 1964 New Statesman review of the de Sola Pinto and Roberts edition of Lawrence’s Complete Poems, D. J. Enright opined that his was an age “of labels and syllabuses” (Banerjee 250). Today, more than 50 years on, the academy has become even more prone to the contest of faculties, to “etiquette” in the French if not the English sense. Interdisciplinarity is a key term, and has become the new mindset of an age that would deny both that there is a thing called “mind” and that it can be made up; even if being made up—that is, a figuration or figment—is all that the mind is, by many definitions. Academic criticism—not least of major figures like Lawrence—is beset with its own provisionality, and the tropes of the frontier, threshold (limen) or hyphen become ubiquitous. While the perception of an increasingly threatening sociopolitical environment has led to a certain recidivist (but not always reactionary) cultural reappraisal, “traditional” is more often than not synonymous with “antiquated.” A text is “unpacked,” rather like Pandora’s box, or “deconstructed” (destroying the box itself), and is no longer “scrutinized” or “evaluated.” Lawrence’s view, at the end of the 1919 New Poems Preface (aka “Poetry of the Present” essay (Complete Poems 186; Poems 1 649), that a reader should be given a “fair chance,” “alone” with a book fails the contemporary criteria of academic relevance and intellectual rigor. These criteria give a nebulous “global” context in which the world-historical, the individual in the widest possible, most “relevant” context, replaces the (Eurocentric) Goethean world-literary. In 1972, Sandra Gilbert wrote, in rather phenomenological fashion, of the “interior otherness that, polarized with the familiar surface of consciousness, makes man human” (Acts 1972); in 2003, Amit Chaudhuri, writing about one poem from that group Gilbert covered, but in Derridean inflected language, translates this “other” into that within language, “différance” (61-64). In other contexts, the “other” has been seen as a product of Lawrence’s “performative stance” (Perloff 112), or a supposed colonizing gaze (Murfin154), in his appropriation of the non-white, non-Christian and “primitive” to stage his shadow-boxing with a dying Western civilization. Such moves do not overcome what might be called the central, abiding Lawrentian problem, the retreat into abstraction (“applied” phenomenology, Derrida, post-colonial reading). To borrow a term Lawrence uses in his “Note” to the 1928 Collected Poems to group his poems from 1912 (Poems 1 656), a “new cycle” in academic criticism has turned in these 40 years, and tracing the origins of the departure is not just an academic nicety, as the process has sociocultural value also. The interstitial in both geocultural and philosophical terms is an abiding, but necessarily fluctuating focus of Lawrence’s life and literary endeavor. Such a shifting focus could best be considered as a reaction to the new environment, the movement outward, were it not that such reactions are often formed proleptically, as is clear in the wavering between east and west in many of the late 1921-early 1922 letters. In a wider sociocultural context, Lawrence here demonstrates that tendency, by now a commonplace, that opinion (the critical—judging—glance) must inevitably change as change is critically important to confront the new geocultural

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environment. There are many such liminal sites in Lawrence’s life and writing: in his “Note,” the precise “new cycle” refers obliquely to his first trip abroad with Frieda; he also refers to going to teach in Croydon and to other significant people, moments and themes. Both the journey to the French-German border lands and the move to London are described as “change[s] of scene.” The greatest such change, however, could arguably be Lawrence’s experience of the American Southwest and Mexico; he is however surprisingly laconic about this in the “Note.” Yet both for its very difference from that which Lawrence had hitherto known1 and by virtue of the circumstance that, from Lamy out, he could envisage the completion of what had become a journey around the world, it is this experience—later in 1928 of course somewhat summarily called “the greatest experience from the outside world” he had ever had (“New Mexico” 142)—that points to a lasting change, one which would stay with him for the rest of his life: “it certainly changed me for ever.” Thus his original, complex reaction to the environment is instructive in assessing his polarization of “outside” and “inside,” the relation of self to other, the mappings of psychic and local geographies, and what criticism can make of these complex, intertwined issues. One of Lawrence’s early reactions to New Mexico, “The Red Wolf,” touches on much of this, and deserves to be foregrounded as what John Beer (Letter) calls a “serious poem,” albeit one which has enjoyed rather tangential treatment. It was grouped in Pollnitz’ MS117 (Roberts’ E47c) from early 1923 with with “Autumn at Taos,” “Spirits Summoned West,” “Eagle in New Mexico” and “Men in New Mexico.” “The Red Wolf” was drafted by early November 1922 (Ellis 73, 256; L4 324-27; Pollnitz gives “c. October 1922” as the composition date [Poems II 1065]). All poems were published in Birds, Beasts and Flowers (9 Oct 1923 in the US [L4 526]; November in the UK). Between their drafting and book publication, Lawrence had covered a lot of ground: from Taos to Mexico to New York (debating whether to continue with Frieda to England, correcting proofs at Seltzer’s cottage at Morris Plains, New Jersey), to Los Angeles, back to Mexico and then, via Havana, eventually to England (December 1923). Given then that in this year Lawrence had visited almost every part of the United States (with the exception of the Pacific Northwest), the placement of New Mexico—which appears by name or implication in four of the five poems mentioned—must have grown and been refined in his thinking, as of course is evident in his prose writings of the time about it (a process of refinement continued in his later sojourns at the Taos Ranch). Given also that the visit to the Southwest had been under consideration during his travels from England, to Asia and Australia and eventually to the United States, Lawrence initially contextualized the state with reference to the West (California) rather than from the traditional (and, from England alone, logically geophysical) Santa Fe trail from the East. Since the New Mexican poems are united by the local (“Taos”) and present several distinct but related aspects of the region, placement into the different thematic structure of the Birds, Beasts and Flowers volume presented an initial challenge. This was overcome by opening up additional sections (“Ghosts”), and by making both categorical subdivisions (“Creatures,” “Evangelistic Beasts,” “Animals”) and figurative substitutions (poems named for places, contexts in which the birds, beasts and flowers exist), so that the volume might be called Birds, Beasts and Flowers and Other Poems. “Men,” “Autumn” and “Spirits” form a group towards the end (“Ghosts”), just before the symbolic final, capstone poem, “The American Eagle.” While “Eagle in New Mexico,” logically enough, appears under “Birds,” ornithological critics have sometimes

1 Sri Lanka (Ceylon) perhaps should be here noted, yet his apparent antipathy so dominates his writings,

and these are so minimal, that it is difficult to make such a claim for his view of the island. The areas

around Perth, Western Australia, and south of Sydney are in some respects rather like the English

southwest, and Sydney itself rather a larger, metropolitan Torquay.

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wondered about the reality of the bird in the final poem. Keith Sagar for example, disingenuously enough perhaps, calls this the “worst poem” in Birds; it is not about a “real eagle” (D. H. Lawrence: Life into Art 244). The point surely however is that it is not a visible, biological entity at all; it is, in fact, a spirit, that which does not actually appear in the country itself (at least, as Lawrence opined in many letters from New York and environs in the summer of 1923). As a spirit, then, the American eagle has—unlike Sallie Hopkin and his mother—never moved through the flesh into the spirit, and therefore is a human contrivance but one in dangerous relation to the human (real) world; the ideology which Lawrence parodies here is continuously but never satisfactorily “word[s] made flesh.” As an emblem, the “bird” is of course an abstraction, in some ways akin2 perhaps as those “Evangelistic beasts” of another section of Birds. “Spirits” and “The American Eagle” are thematically related, if somewhat by negation: the women (particularly the mother-figure) are described as “gentle,” a quality expressed through the dove in the closing poem; the child (the son; the eagle), on the one hand, both commits matricide (“mother, my love, whom I told to die” [Birds 174; Poems I 363]) and “summons west,” and, on the other, “command[s] a lucrative obedience” (Birds 179; Poems I 365). Both children have a magisterial, distant yet ubiquitous presence (“summoning west”; “overweening bird”) which, in “Spirits,” is akin to the power of the shaman and, in “The American Eagle,” to the insidious, multifaceted but displaced actions of twentieth-century mediafied ideology. Lawrence captures this latter aspect in the “Me-Almighty eye,” that which Ted Hughes later describes in his “Hawk Roosting” (that which sees all, yet is itself [until it is too late] unseen), but cannot make the full stretch, as he gives a precise position to the bird on its quasi-real, quasi-symbolic “perch” under which, in a parody perhaps of the inscription at the Statue of Liberty, “the greedy millions” toil (179; 365). Increasingly, from Lawrence’s time to our own, the centralized Panopticon has become variegated and diffuse, a tendency which is an ideological spirit of that age beginning in his later years. Through this relation to “The American Eagle,” “Spirits” serves as a transition from one section of Birds to the other (even though these divisions are not generally marked in the volume by blank or titular pages, and are indicated merely by divergent font size on the contents pages3). “The Red Wolf,” comparably, bridges the “animals” (that is, those with a personal spirit or pneuma) and the “ghosts.” These latter are considered in relation to their psyche,4 those who are “emerging” [170] from the landscape, in an act of self-creation as that

2 Is the American eagle in contrast a secular symbol?

3 The little prose prefaces familiar to readers of the de Sola Pinto/Roberts Complete Poems were added for

the 1930 Cresset edition, and the separation made in the 1923 Birds of “The American Eagle” and the

“Ghosts” poems is not apparent. It is a distinction however Lawrence originally made, although some

commentators have overlooked the fact (Laird, for example, in Self and Sequence 136; slightly revised in

“Homunculus”): “Eagle” “stands outside the last section,” which gives it an inexplicable, ambiguous

position [127]). See also Pollnitz’ note, Poems II 1071. 4 The distinction on which I draw here between pneuma and psyche resonates through Western culture from

the classical period on, and the particular nuances are those of Catharism (the anima and spiritus or earthly

and transcendent spirits [Zambon 61]; cp. Lawrence [mistakenly] Movements 145) and the Baltic religions

(Romuva). Maria Gimbutas discusses the distinction between Baltic-Lithuanian vėlė (soul of the dead)

and siela (spirit, that which is reincarnated in other guise) as that between Greek psyche and pneuma (29).

Frazer’s Golden Bough mentions “the great Lithuanian sanctuary of Romove” (771), but gives few specific

details about Baltic religions. “Snake” and “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine,” evince comparable

“pagan” impulses, a term which, by association at least, had been applied to Lawrence since his late

teenage years (Worthen 170). In these cases such flourishes are easily contextualized through the image of

the Romuvan serpent žaltys and the Avestan Vendidad respectively (the latter in Max Müller’s Sacred

Books of the East, vol 4 [1885]). One verse from the Vendidad is particularly apposite to “Porcupine”: “O

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from a kiva (and thus a New World variant on the Keatsian “vale of soul-making”); those who are afraid of their transition to a spirit-life and consume themselves in ecological destruction and violence [“Men in New Mexico”]; and those who are already spirits. Demons, totemism and the occult (“he is Star-Road” [165; 355]) inform “The Red Wolf,” and although through the previous poems in the “Animals” section a reader may expect that there will be at least a trace of a real animal here, this is quickly dispelled. The red wolf appears, at twilight, much as the fox does to March in the “The Fox,” substantially finished about a year earlier yet also published in 1923: she is “spell-bound” (10) as he “master[s] her spirit” (11); something of the wolf enters the poem’s initial narrator, who becomes at first a “lost white dog of a pale-face,” then a “thin red wolf” of same to end at last as “the red dawn wolf.”5 At the end of Lawrence’s tale, a westerly tendency is already present in March, with her insistence of “keeping awake” and having “the reins of her own life between her own hands,” and her desire to look “away to the West, Canada,6 America,” in order that “she would know and she would see what was ahead” (70). She would find a kindred spirit in the titular figure of “The Woman Who Rode Away,” but the pattern of emigration is also of course Lawrence’s, even if he would baulk at the direct, Atlantic route westwards. Such a psychic transformation and tension between geographical coordinates underpin “The Red Wolf” also. While Lawrence’s totem was the fox, and he was known as the “red fox” in Taos, this is not reflected in the poem, which is named for a wolf (even though this has both dog- and fox-like characteristics), except perhaps in the brief self-depiction (“thin red wolf of a pale-face” [Poems II 354]). The later “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine” adds to the cross-breeding in the poem, as the dog which has been attacked by the porcupine has both a “bushy, foxy tail” (351) and goes “off like a wolf” (352); here the genera vulpes and canis are almost surrealistically metamorphosed. Literary criticism may then find positive, but ecology and evolution not, the conflation of wolf and fox in such an example, or in Kenneth Inniss’ view that “Lawrence accept[-ed] as his totem” “the figure of the red wolf (fox)”; “red fox, and related wolf” are only “relatives” in an imaginative world which can be appropriated at (human) will (86). A tree can be seen as “so much lumber not yet sawn” (“Pan in America” 26) or as the object of human pondering, yet it is not, any more than is the animal in question here, seen independent of human judgment, as criticism has asserted and as Robinson Jeffers’s “ahumanist” poetics attempted to depict nature. The two parallel comminglings in story, poem and essay—the physical with the spirit animal, and that between [sub-] genera—are in turn productive of and dependent on a third, a main problem with the poem in the Times Literary

Maker of the material world, thou Holy One! If a man kill the dog with the prickly back, with the long and

thin muzzle, the dog Vanghapara, which evil-speaking people call the Duzaka [hedgehog], what is the

penalty that he shall pay?” (13.1). The pertinence of such confusion here, both that the hedgehog (order:

insectivora) is a dog (carnivora) and [my own] that the hedgehog is a porcupine (rodentia), will become

evident later in my argument. It is of course not by any accident that the “Ghosts” section leads off with an

epigraph which includes Empedocles’ Fragment 101 (for whom the above distinction is intrinsic [cp. at

least the opening dozen or so fragments in Diels’ sequence]) and which picks up the “doggishness” of the

persona at the end of “Wolf” and the motif of “trotting” which returns in the second poem of the “Ghosts”

section, “Autumn.” 5 For an overview of issues related to “species discourse,” see Doherty (2012).

6 While characters in several Lawrence stories follow the contemporary drive of emigration to Canada

(“The Fox”; “Love among the Haystacks”), and Lawrence had thought of settling there, his own experience

of the country, Niagara Falls, was minimal on his journeying in 1923. On 8th

October 1921, he wrote to

Earl Brewster from Taormina of his bucolic “plan” “ultimately, to get a little farm somewhere by myself, in

Mexico, New Mexico, Rocky Mountains, or British Columbia” (L4 95; my emphasis: a mixture of the

pioneer-settler and the mountain man, perhaps).

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Supplement material I shall describe: the supposed geographical anomalies and compass misdirections, the place from which such metamorphoses are described. In his late-’Sixties poem “What You Should Know to Be a Poet,” Gary Snyder starts with an anthropomorphism comparable to that in Lawrence’s poem: above all, the poet should know “all you can about animals as persons”; he then considers important a knowledge of “the names of trees and flowers and weeds” and of “the movements of the planets/ and the moon” (which implies a knowledge of one’s own placement on earth; Regarding Wave 40). While Snyder does not—except by implication—literally call for a scientific knowledge of animals (their “proper names”), the importance of such knowledge is paradigmatic to a long tradition which includes Confucius on calling things by their correct names (Analects XIII.iii.5) to modern ecocriticism. Glen A. Love for example calls for a “practical ecocriticism” which would “test ideas against the workings of physical reality,” and “join humanistic thinking to the empirical spirit of the sciences” (7). Taking a stance against that unquestioning “antiscience” rhetoric common in the humanities, Love notes that while scientists may “overstate or distort” their data, “the methodology of the discipline is in place to question and refute and correct those misstatements. Unfortunately, in the nonsciences, overstating the evidence or obfuscating reality often enjoys a free ride” (45). There are of course rhetorical checks and balances, where these are not subject to the whimsy of critical fashion, but these are often insufficient to isolate errors at the level of content, and are often hubristical and premature in labeling certain methodologies passées (in this, they, unwittingly perhaps, follow the norms of scientific inquiry). The red wolf sounds like a plausible enough inhabitant of Lawrence’s Taos world, but on closer (more “scientific”) inspection it turns out to be somewhat anomalous, both as a creature and in the habitat claimed for it which forms part of the reality of the opening section of the poem. The animal moves like a dog or a fox (“trotting”), and is more akin to the latter in its solitary ranging. Clearly the poem moves swiftly into the world of the supernatural, but it sites the encounter of eagle, wolf and demon[s] (and, through these as seemingly changing personae, the observer, shaman-poet) in “the Taos desert,” and refers, apparently, to a known creature, canis [lupus] rufus, now an endangered [sub-] species. In that abiding topical impression underlying the poem, there is the presence of that which, in the visible world, would be a red wolf. Historically, however, the range of the red wolf encompassed the southeastern United States as far west as Lake Texoma (Oklahoma) and down to Eagle Pass on the Texas-Mexican border (Wayne 723), that is at its closest point some 500 miles from Taos. The poem then would trace this spirit journey over its first twenty lines or so. In a poem which is all about mutations, psychic conjoinings and displacements, it is additionally salient that there is some debate about whether the red wolf is a species at all, or rather a “hybrid.” Robert K. Wayne et al. conclude that the animal is “a primitive species or subspecies, representing part of the phylogenetic transition from coyote to gray wolf.” Longing to make evolutionary connections (themselves debatable, sometimes no more than strong assertions), science requires such a transitional taxon: “If the red wolf did not exist we would have to invent it” (723). Or perhaps we would use the designation for what, much more likely is/was a coyote (canis latrans), which is of course, in distinctive feature analysis, +wolfish and +reddish at least. The difference between a coyote and a wolf is however quite easy to make, even for a newly arrived “pale-face.” Lawrence might have it both ways: what the narrator saw was a real animal, but its powers, attributes and psychic state (the animal “as [a] person”) are the writer’s contrivance. Contrary to its depiction in the poem, the red wolf, of course, is a social animal, living (when possible) in groups (how Lawrence was coming to hate the group at Taos!), and not only could be transitional [sub-]species but has cross-mated with coyotes (these being more abundant),

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which brought the red wolf to the brink of extinction.7 Perhaps Lawrence was thinking of the Mexican gray wolf (canis lupus baileyi), which—contrary to the name—could have a reddish sheen, particularly in that translucent roseate crepuscular light for which a mountain range (the Sandías: watermelon) in the state is named. The temporal setting of the poem between dusk and dawn adds credence to such a view: “the red-dawn-wolf” (Poems I 354) in which “red” combines more with “dawn” perhaps (that with Homeric “rosy-fingers”, more apt in the desert southwest perhaps than even in the Aegean) than with “wolf.” . One might think in this case that the semantics of the title should be “wolf which appears red,” that is a red wolf, but the title is unambiguous: “The Red Wolf.” Stripped of the definite article, the animal loses, literally, what definition (“animal as person”) it has, its spiritual essence and of course its taxonomy, however ambiguous this might be. What Lawrence, or his multiple personae had seen, and where they had seen it, are therefore indistinct. Readerly expectations might be to pit a semi-real canine against a chthonic-Christian (“demon,” “Old Harry,” “Old Nick”) spirit of the place, yet the former’s reality disintegrates and the latter is so circumscribed by Lawrence’s emphasis/delegation of the Indian to the dark places of his own pagan-Christian consciousness that it takes on a sharper profile, one of a colonializing othering.8 The poem can then serve as a prelude to a deeper investigation of this realm, adding a southerly trajectory to cancel out his apparent antipathy to America.9 By mid-February 1923, he had worked the New Mexican poems into the volume, and on the 7th of that month he wrote to Seltzer that he had “made up the complete MS” (L4 378). He was then done, for once (only), with the United States: Mexico beckoned, and—after altercations with Mabel and issues with Mountsier—he wanted little to do with Americans on the trip, as he wrote to Adele Seltzer on the 10th February (L4 386). This trip was to be a foundational moment, of course, and over the rest of the year outweighed the impression both of New Mexico and of the rest of the United States (from New Orleans to New York) he was to see in his voyage to the financial capital. While his letters of mid-year 1923 occasionally mention Mexico, New Mexico itself has little presence in them, and his immediate surroundings, in bucolic stockbroker belt New Jersey or the proximate financial center which he found taxing, could not be brought into focus for him. On the 14th August, he wrote of his “wish [that] things were real to me. I see the lake at Chapala, not the hills of Jersey” (L4 484); from such a vision, of course, was arising Quetzalcoatl [The Plumed Serpent], even if by that August he had laid that text aside also. With almost a full circuit both of the world and of the United States behind him, for the first time confronted by the implications both of following the sun across the continent (a

7 A little excursus might here be taken on the irony of the choice of such a beast as persona/totem, given

Lawrence’s much-discussed views on miscegenation, but a short reference to the latter part of

“Reflections,” where Lawrence talks of getting “vitality” by “absorb[-ing] it from creatures lower than

ourselves,” through for example “devouring food” or “love” may stand for perhaps a more positive side of

his thinking (359). 8 Patricia Hagen notes that “all the ‘white’ ways of knowing are dead ashes in the darkness”—a reference to

the poem’s lines about “white Christus” (73). Yet Lawrence here presents a simile: it is the day which is

here pulverized “like a white Christus”; the Christian rhetoric is still present, and known to the chthonic

demon other: “Old Harry,” “Old Nick.” Again, the indefinite article is instructive (since there is only one

Christ on the cross): Lawrence may have been thinking of a wooden crucifix so plentiful for sale around

Taos, as the imagery of pulverization and incineration seems misplaced in the actual Crucifixion story,

except—to coin a phrase—as part of Lawrence’s long-standing attempt to write of this his own

“crucifictions.” 9 Lawrence constantly chafes against most of the places he visited, and his views of the parts of the British

Empire he had seen were perfunctory in comparison with those of Kipling , Orwell or Maugham.

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trajectory which he had rejected in coming to America) and of the homeward voyage, with so much left unprocessed of his travels, Lawrence’s world-view was left fragmented but almost, frustratingly, complete. This is perhaps a capstone issue in contemporary scholarship, as it interweaves post-colonial readings into American Studies and negotiates Lawrence’s ambivalence about the United States. A relatively obscure 1971 debate in the letters page of the London Times Literary Supplement is here instructive in assessing both the impasse which still surrounds this issue and the reasons for its continuance; it is still one of the most sustained critiques of the poem, and—as a rhetorical debate—takes explicitly that agonistic form which Lawrence’s poem allowed him to take with himself (to modify somewhat Yeats’s well-known opposition). The TLS debate was initiated a letter from Keith Sagar in which he laments his indecision whether to alter Lawrence’s geography in his editing of “The Red Wolf” for his Penguin selection, and went on to involve John Beer, Harry T. Moore and M. B. Mencher who pitched in with the comments both that the poem was “minor” and that Sagar’s concern served only to bring “scholarship into contempt.”10 In his letter of the 10th September 1971, Keith Sagar points to the poem’s anomalous geography: the sun seems to set in the east in the version published in the American edition; Lawrence—or an editor (Secker?)11—later made one change (“east” to “west” in the final stanza) but left earlier related passages. Lawrence’s geography was therefore faulty, and this was “an elementary error.” Yet it is one that a moment’s reflection would have noticed, and it is unlikely that this would be the case, particularly if the drafts had been lying around for any length of time. It is also one which seems to have caused little concern to other commentators of the period. Both Kenneth Inniss, in his 1971 D. H. Lawrence’s Bestiary (85), and Gail Porter Mandell, in her 1984 Phoenix Paradox (116-117), quote without comment or question a supposedly “erroneous” passage: “Has the red wolf trotted east and east and east,/ From the far, far other end of the day/To fear a few fangs.” Sagar bolsters his argument as he equates Lawrence’s image of the “tail of the sun” with its undeniable trajectory westwards. Yet a sun is not a comet, and the specific image here might be investigated more. One phenomenon common to the relatively cloudless skies of a high plateau is the gradual increase skywards, that is, from the perspective of an observer in the east, and thus eastwards, of the red glow of sunset, often in bands of color. If such a glow is meant by a “tail,” the further east the more expansive the glow would be, and also, of course, the closer one would be to the dawn. Because the sun sets in the west, the tail extends to the east; the lines do not therefore, and contra Sagar, need to be read as if giving the impression “that the sun sets in the east.” Another Birds poem is here instructive. In “Turkey-Cock” (September-October 1920 [Poems II 1038) an Italian poem expectant of America, Lawrence mentions the bird’s “round-barred, sun-round tail,” which gives a different nuance and shape to the expected, overly canine connotations of the “tail” image in “The Red Wolf.”12 The male turkey’s “sudden, demonic dauntlessness” is here compared to the arrogance of the peacock which “struts blue-brilliant

10

An article by Mencher on “Lawrence and Sex” appeared in English Studies 84.4 (August 2003): 347-

354; given its lack of annotation and footnotes, his antipathy towards professorial debate, it might be

inferred, has not abated. 11

In an e-mail to the present author, Christopher Pollnitz notes: “As far as anything is certain in the textual

history of BBF, it is not an authorial change but a well-meaning alteration by a publisher. In the [CUP]

reading-text ‘went east’ will be restored” (sent 9th

September 2006). In his note to the line in the

Cambridge edition, Pollnitz asserts that “went west” arose in the Secker proof stage and “hence can have

no authorial basis” (Poems II 1067).

12

Lockwood (140) has a few lines relating the two poems and Comellini (2901-291) places them side, but

neither elaborates.

8

out of the far East” (and which by color alone could not be a metaphor for the sun). The western bird, that of “the next dawn,” as a “wattled father,” may “await us . . . Westward” (Birds 111-12). This subservience of the geographical to the world-historical prevails towards the end of the poem, where—after pronouncing “the East a dead letter”—the narrator questions whether “feather-lustrous Aztecs” (more then like peacocks than turkeys) “stand under the dawn, half-godly, half-demon [Indian demons again], awaiting the cry of the turkey-cock” (from, therefore their east which is a west, or is in the west). Since many of the images, as above cited, are common to both “Turkey-Cock” and “The Red Wolf” (demon, dawn, father, the compass terms), and that both poems end with the expectation of the dawn, the further transmutation of the associations of the “tail” seem also apposite. Even if tinged with a certain racism (Murfin 154), Lawrence’s view that the chthonic, primeval Indian consciousness would begin a new epoch, bringing new life to the “dead” and the “moribund” here stands or falls by the success of his use of the primary, even traditional metaphor for such change: a new dawn.13 Sagar’s view then that “haste under pressure” was responsible for the correction of one of the “easts” to a “west” (at the end of the poem) cannot get at the complexities of Lawrence’s psychic and world-historical geography. While he may have felt rushed to finish the proofs for several reasons (including his contemplation of joining Frieda to Europe), there are indications that he could have surmounted such a sentiment. On the 9th May 1923 he wrote to Louis N. Feipel that he would “try to mend [his] ways” in response to Feipel’s informing him of the proofreading errors in The Captain’s Doll and Fantasia (Ellis, Game 122; cp. L4 443). Lawrence both was haunted by the need for meticulousness and impatient to get on with the proof-reading, as noted in several letters to Seltzer of that month (L4 437, 442, 447). He seems to have arrived at Seltzer’s New Jersey cottage on the 20th July (a Thursday), and to have finished the Kangaroo proofs by the following Wednesday. On this day (26th July) he wrote to Curtis Brown to this effect, and added: “I have got also proofs of Birds, Beasts and Flowers; these I will send in a couple of days” (L4 475). On the 1st August, he wrote to Mountsier that he had finished these proofs (477), and therefore seems to have worked to schedule. It is unlikely that he would have started Birds before he had finished Kangaroo, and he may not even have received the Birds proofs until the Monday evening, since he wrote to Bessie Freeman, probably earlier on this day (24th): “[Seltzer] comes out here ever night, except Sat. and Sunday, when he’s here all the time.” Still, he would then have had about a week for Birds, which seems more than sufficient, particularly in comparison with the speed with which he had gone through Kangaroo. The need for “haste” therefore may be but one side of the situation. Sagar gives a generically tenable biographical explanation for Lawrence’s geography: that the writer wanted to “go east, intending ultimately to go west” (as in the 29 September 1921 letter to the Brewsters [L4 90]). Yet this is perhaps too overt to explain a complexity in a poem replete with at least three personas, and therefore, contra Sagar, only tangentially “biographical.” Kenneth Inniss (also in 1971) conflates biography and image in his discussion of the “homeless dog” simile: the wolf becomes “homeless, redheaded D. H. Lawrence,” and “is so identified by an Indian demon” (85). Here the anaphoric “so” relates only to the adjective “homeless,” but not—as Inniss’ syntax would have it—to “Lawrence” himself. If geography is still arguably taken as destiny in literary studies, biographical criticism was gradually being undermined by a number of now canonical essays translated into English in the later ’Seventies—Foucault’s “What is an Author?,” Barthes’ “Death of the Author” and Benjamin’s “Author as Producer”—and which gave a more abstract, theoretical rationale for the new critical

13

That the use of Greenwich time meridian makes the day always newer in the west than in the east is a

tangential, yet happy coincidence.

9

stance to the “biographical fallacy.” Even in terms of the biographical, there is much more to be said (or than can be said in the letters page of the TLS14) about the ambivalence with which Lawrence faced the return to the UK at the time that he was reading the proofs for Birds at Seltzer’s cottage in New Jersey. Yet this and similar ambivalence about moving on predate the writing of the poem, in which such an expression is belated. Sagar places geophysical fact (the objectivity of compass points) over their integration into lived experience and a complex creative work, and thus denies the reader both the opportunity to examine implications of the “contradictions” (Sagar’s word) and the ability to see the poem in the full cognizance of the ramifications of the biographical context back into which Sagar himself has placed it earlier in his letter. At the end of the ’Seventies, Sagar wrote that it is “very dangerous” to “test a writer’s ‘reality’ against our own sense of it,” as this “may prevent us from making that imaginative leap into another man’s world [sic] which must precede any judgment” (“Beyond D. H. Lawrence” 261). It is particularly the sense of “world” (including perhaps that presented in Heidegger15) that is at issue here. In the following week’s TLS (17th September), M. B. Mencher, in somewhat Leavisite vein, wrote a short acerbic letter (some 100 words or so; Sagar’s is some six times the length). “What on earth does it matter,” he opined, “whether [Lawrence] should have made a silly geographical mistake in a minor poem?” The question is indubitably polemical-rhetorical, including its otherwise appropriate geographical posturing “what on earth.” The “world” so elaborately constructed into and through the poem is seen—and again the Heideggerean nuance is apposite—as the material out of which it is made, the “earth,” and which for Heidgegger belong together (Basic Writings 173) but which here are separated into “the self-assertion of their essential natures” (174). With this connection lost, all questions are “silly.” In such an assertion, and in his antipathy to the “setting up” of a parallel world, Mencher does not need to grapple with the poem’s complex details, which he would find irrelevant. Reading an intricate poetic discourse as if it were a programmatic social novel, he already shows a shift from that specific engagement with a poem’s “minute particulars” which has been a staple of literary scholarship since Romanticism (the quoted phrase, of course, is Blake’s), and which is still upheld by patient Cambridge editing.16 Yet perhaps one can feel a little nostalgic reading Mencher’s letter. In its tone and posturing, it is indicative of stormy times in which literature still meant something outside the academy, far from closed-access libraries with the Cambridge editions. As indicative of such

14

Upon considering the current TLS prevalence towards “blogs”, one can deduce that the editors share part

of Mencher’s criticism in that such lengthy debates about specific textual anomalies in a relatively short

poem, and that not even under review, would seldom be included. 15

“World worlds [Welt weltet] and more beingly [seiender] than the tangible and perceptible in which we

think ourselves at home” (Heidegger, Ursprung 41; cp. Basic Writings 170; my—over-literal—translation).

Anne Fernihough gives a brief treatment of the connection with Heidegger (161-62), although more could

be said about the above passage (in The Origin of the Work of Art) and similar in which Lawrence discusses

“world and “earth.” 16

It is perhaps by accident that the principals here (Leavis, Mencher, Beer and the editors of the Cambridge

edition) are all connected with Cambridge University, but it is a circumstance worth recording here,

especially since another axis, from Manchester to Illinois, is represented in the other correspondents (Sagar

and Moore) and the issue of Lawrence and the global is an undercurrent throughout my essay. Commenting

on editing the Last Poems, Christopher Pollnitz noted that “to restore Lawrence's punctuation is to restore

precise significance, as well as the cadence and inflection of his writing. The last factor is the more

significant in the case of Lawrence's free verse” (“D. H. Lawrence's Last Poems”). One might add that

such significance extends to the New York cover of Birds itself (which, Lawrence proudly claims, he

designed himself), and on which there is an exclamation mark after the title, which gives a different

impression from that of the title page, without the apostrophe).

10

times, a rather tetchy exchange about an “Old Left” critique of the eclective, counter-cultural “Yippie-” [et al.] style Penguin anthology BAMN (By Any Means Necessary). Outlaw Manifestos and Ephemera, 1965-1970, whose title tells much about its contents and the times, occupies the column next to Sagar’s original letter. In this volume, alongside tips for avoiding tear gas during a demonstration, and a mock-invitation to the OZ obscenity trials, was a 1965 “Letter to the Queen” drafted by Paolo Lionni and signed by many other poets at the inaugural Commonwealth Arts Festival Poetry Conference in Cardiff, and of which the first proposition to Her Majesty was “that poetry, as an artistic extension of language, is a concrete alternative in the spiritual vacuum of contemporary everyday life” (Stansill/Mairowitz 38). Lawrence would have scrutinized and expanded upon both such an opinion, and the reviewer’s counter-proposition that such an “alternative” should be accompanied by clarity about the precise “means necessary” to achieve it. Two weeks later (1st October), Harry T. Moore wrote in again.17 He suggested that Mencher wanted “an approach to literature without an understanding of background, without a comprehensive text, and without any consideration of literary values.” “The Red Wolf” was hardly a “minor poem,” as Mencher had opined; indeed, incidentally, one might add that in November 1927, Alice Corbin Henderson wrote to Lawrence to get permission to republish it in The Turquoise Land: An Anthology of New Mexican Poetry (L6, 229). It is doubtful—since he does not mention it, and given the slower pace of these things pre-internet—whether Moore had seen Beer’s intervention (24th September) by this time, and he does not enter into his own speculation about Lawrence’s questionable geography. His contribution, short as it is—I have quoted most of the relevant paragraph above—is perhaps the most indicative. John Beer had written a lengthy letter; at some eighteen column inches, or one-third of the space devoted to letters, it would hardly appear today, even if it was from Peterhouse, Cambridge. Speculative but text-specific, Beer argues for that close reading with which Mencher would dispense. He asserts that Lawrence knew what he was doing, was expressing his pantheism in the “complicated relationship between the self-renewing sun, the red wolf and [his] own sense of himself.” Quoting, rather anachronistically perhaps, from the late 1928 essay “New Mexico,” Beer opens up a general biographical context to get at what Lawrence “presumably” meant. Yet since such an approach distorts chronology, as it includes such later opinion unformulated at the time of writing, it is another form of abstraction from the very context it purports to be enabling in order to give a close reading of the poem. Beer distinguishes much that later has been conflated (for example by Mandell 117; Lockwood 141)—Indian, demon, wolf, fox, dog and narrative persona—but, in reference to the final stanza, rather sweepingly sees “creature” as a figure of the “sun.” Yet if the sun is here meant, this is a very different taxonomy than that of those half-corporeal, half pure-energeia fauna [mosquito, bat] in the “Creatures” section itself. In a productive view of the geographical question, Beer reads “east” not primarily as a vector of movement towards, but as a reference to that compass direction from which the setting sun is seen; that is, whenever we look at the sun to the west, we are geographically east of it, at least from the accepted cosmography. One might add to this that since the “problems” Sagar identifies begin once the wolf has taken on the “red-dawn” attribute, and at the end is awaiting the rising sun, he would surely do better to travel east. A rather shoddy geographical sense is of course not habitual or unique to Lawrence, although, reading the letters, one cannot fail to note the frequency with which he

17

He had contributed to an interrelated series of letters—not part of my paper here—with some comments

on Lawrence’s examination results the same week as Sagar’s comments on “The Red Wolf.” I deal with the

letters slightly out of order here, to have done with the Mencher point before moving back to the argument

concerning Lawrence’s geography.

11

complains of not being someplace else, and therefore how acute might be the distinction between “world” imaginatively, anticipatively or nostalgically projected and the “earth” he made real by traveling across it. The poetic imagination has long devised ou-topias as projections of the everyday. Blake’s imaginative geography of the British Isles (as in Jerusalem Plate 21) maps the once and future conditional onto the present imperfect; Gertrude Stein’s view (or non-vision) of Oakland (“there’s no there there”), or Neil Young’s of Los Angeles (“everybody knows this is nowhere”), are comparable moves, but those which deny the possibility of transfiguration. The “land in question”—so Nathaniel Tarn—“is on no known map/it hides behind all maps,/its borders are not the borders maps promise us” (Seeing 5). Considering sailings across the Atlantic in the summer of 1923, Lawrence could not yet complete the circle, since there was so much unfinished business (which cannot be reduced to issues with various personalities, including Frieda), too much left unseen, unexperienced, or rather precipitously dismissed in the west. Nothing was quite yet a fruitful, distinct memory, and thus nothing could be “mapped” in Tarn’s sense. Better so, perhaps. After Lawrence left the Southwest (September 1925), “Spud” Johnson put together an edition of Laughing Horse in his honor. One of the poems is “Beyond the Rockies” which plays with its place-deixis (Udall 365-66; Pinto/Roberts 816); one would assume that a magazine associated with Taos would see the “beyond” as elsewhere, that is either “back east” or the Pacific slope. Lawrence however, writing from Europe, unhinges himself from space-time, enters the “land of the lost,” where (but this is a nowhere) “the rest is afterwards,” and there is “more space than in life.” Yet the Lawrence number (#13; 1926) was page-set in Ossining, New York (Udall 40), even if its primary recipients were in the Southwest. For such an audience—for an audience there, now—the opening line might seem a truism, an act of uneasy recognition, yet hardly an act of interpellation: There are people there, beyond the Rockies… “Beyond,” or “among”? “The West has always been under an Eastern thumb”: so Tarn (Recollections 79),18 quoting William Everson (Brother Antoninus), another poet influenced by Lawrence (Meltzer 92). But, given the context—which East, which West? The geographical ambiguities and oscillations between east and west in “The Red Wolf” should be seen in the context of contradictions in Lawrence’s letters in the year or so preceding his arrival in Taos. On 9th October 1921, he wrote to Amy Lowell that “American poetry today is better than English. As for me, in direction I am more than half American. I always write really towards America: my listener is there” (L4 97). One might here ask about not only the constituents of and distinctions between these “halves” but also the definition of “direction” here. Clearly he is thinking both of a way of seeing rather than a compass direction, especially since his voyage to America took him away from it. Later in the letter he alleges: “I only did two poems all the summer—‘Fish’ and ‘Bat.’” What then of the (admittedly early summer/late spring) “The Evening Land,” surely also written “towards America,” which in Birds is listed as written in “Baden-Baden” where he had stayed from April to July? In this poem, America is “demonish,” and the importance of the crepuscular (again, Baudelaire) self-evident. On 5th November he received a letter from one Mabel Dodge Sterne, with the invitation to Taos. In his reply, while expressive of his desire to come with the “q-b,” in the same paragraph he raised many, rather status-conscious objections: “the sub-arty people”; the “Indians dying out”; the possibility that servants would need to be engaged (111). “One must somehow bring together the two ends of humanity, our own thin end, and the last dark strand from the previous, pre-white era. . . . . I want to leave Europe. I want to take the next step. Shall it be Taos?—I like the

18

Ironically for a poet long-time resident in New Mexico, this 2004 volume was published in the UK.

12

word. It’s a bit like Taormina” (111). Yet the process of alignment (“bring[-ing] together”) was complicated by the valence and geographical positioning of the separate strands, and the world-historical connections between Asia and Europe, which may not be reified into two separate “ends.”19 Lawrence wrote to Brewster on 16th November that he “would rather go to Taos than to Ceylon,” as there was more “glamour and magic” “in the west, not in the fulfilled east.” (Thus, that which was there “pre-white” was also “fulfilled,” an apparent paradox for Lawrence and for many of his contemporary Morgenlandfahrer.) Still, he had not yet “decided” (125). At year’s end, Lawrence had a bad bout of ’flu, which gave him additional reason to delay his plans: “There was a boat from Bordeaux to New Orleans on Jan 15th. If I’d been ready enough I’d have caught it” (letter to Mary Cannan, 11 Jan 1922; L4 163; the tense use is curious, given the date). In a move which was to prefigure his ambivalence about leaving America in, Lawrence wrote to Mountsier on 18th January 1922, that “Suddenly that [he was] on the point of coming to America [again, the verb is instructive] I feel I can’t come. Not yet. It is something almost stronger than I am. I would rather go to Ceylon, and come to America later, from the east” (L4 168). Here the ambiguous anaphoric [“can’t come”]/cataphoric [Ceylon] “it” (the “stronger”) leaves open its reference either to the antipathy to America or the pull of South Asia. So, on the same day, he writes to Brewster that “it seems so much easier, more peaceful to come east”; he felt “so ridiculous, wavering between east and west.” But again, the place deixis is from Brewster’s viewpoint, not Lawrence’s, for whom the verb “go” would be more usual. In his 16th November letter, Asia was “fulfilled” and “perfected” (cp. Kinkead-Weekes 713); now the same argument was turned on its head, and America was “where everything [was] just unlearnt and confused to the utmost” (L4 170-171). Yet the argument of the 8th October letter to Brewster, to ‘be away from the body of mankind,’ is retained: “One must for the moment withdraw from the world.” He would take the principle of “peace” from Buddhism, if not the specifics of “inaction and meditation,” as he notes in a letter of 24 January 1922 to Catherine Carswell. One could compile copious other examples of such ambivalences, expressions of a complex if not quite dialectical striving in Lawrence for psychic balance, and which is played out in many forms throughout the work, not least of course in “The Red Wolf,” for which even the more sophisticated analyses (Beer’s, for example) seem abstract and digressive. And yet the consideration of such ambivalences is not just, pace Moore, an attempt to provide “an understanding of background.” This, in the wide, deconstructed or new historicist sense, has now expanded out of the summary notion of “context” which could then be taken as its synonym but which was undergoing ineluctable change at the very time the TLS debate was ongoing. In the 8th October 1971 issue, indeed, appeared a lengthy review (“With the Literature Left Out”) of Malcolm Bradbury’s Social Context of Modern English Literature, and which decried the movement from historicist (or Leavisite “spiritual”) to sociological (then also called “scientific”) interpretations. Bradbury set his work on the grand plan, and his Conclusion claims: “In making evaluative judgments, we reach out into large-scale cultural preferences,” an interface possible because literature, uniquely and inimitably, both utters “the concern with

19

To paraphrase Kipling, “what should they know of the thin end who only the thin end know” (“The

English Flag,” Works 221); his refrain to “The Ballad of East and West” can also serve as background, but

only if one includes the lines: “there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,/ When two

strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!” (Works 234). Lawrence pits

his strong wolf-totem against the “Indian” “demon, yet, since there is no help of reconciliation through

strength of purpose and position, as through Kipling’s Colonel’s and Kamal’s sons (“no talk shall be of

dogs . . . when wolf and grey wolf meet”), Lawrence aligns himself here with the Forster of the ending of

A Passage to India.

13

lived life” and, in its traditional aspect, “tends to accrete to itself certain broader values, forms of belief and of knowledge,” in other words ideology (253). Bradbury’s book polemicizes a reaction to what he calls the “‘balkanization’ of knowledge and culture” (xii), and—although it uses the terms “cultural study” and “ecology”—is neither in today’s terms (258). Even if Bradbury refers to Lucien Goldmann’s Pour une sociologie du roman, its English translation (1975) and Williams’ Keywords were still in the future. The TLS review shared the page however with a large advertisement for Hermann Luchterhand Verlag’s Contemporary Authors, the first of whom listed is Adorno, and which includes Habermas and Marcuse, alongside Sartre and Lukács. The reviewer takes the measure of Bradbury’s book, admitting a need to go beyond the albeit “hard-fought” battle for practical criticism and the page, beyond that is being “trapped in the text, the page, the sentence, the image.” The reviewer’s version of the historical, however, is also an abstraction from the lived experience of the present; so even the solution to the problem of relating culture, environment and text, would—in a term often then used—“mausoleumize” it. Are we then—to quote from the final sentence—“simply stuck” with the problem? However the subject is approached, the contemporary salience of Lawrence’s works still presents what James T. Boulton once called a “Challenge to our Scholarship.”20 Since the TLS debate, there has been the eight-volume collection of letters, the three-volume Cambridge biography, and many solid editions of most works. “Some of Lawrence’s battles,” so Sagar at a 1979 conference, “have been won,” with that “new system of values whereby everything could be judged according to whether or not it is life-enhancing” (“Beyond D. H. Lawrence” 259). “His most spectacular success [has been] in the effect he had on our attitudes to sex.” It is much, but for the incipient century it seems overstated and simply not enough. As Sagar goes on to note, “other battles have been lost. Our society is even more materialistic and mechanized” (260). Considered today, more than a quarter-century later, Sagar’s speech seems premature, its implied community (“we” [“our”]) indefinite. Sagar was speaking to academics in Illinois; does he mean to include Manchester, all sections of both societies, the fickle trans-Atlantic partnership, Churchill’s “special relationship” (sometimes characterized in sexual terms)? Again, one sees the transposition of place, its mobile, fluid spirit. Such battles are fought, as later events have taught us (should we need reminding) over and over, here and elsewhere. (Sagar says that “Lawrence’s weapons and strategy have become outmoded, though he can still inspire the troops.”) For a writer so enmeshed in strucutres of power, a solid Marcusian or Habermasian reading, not to mention one informed by Deleuze/Guattari or even Žižek, has been hardly in evidence. The Cambridge Poems has recently appeared, demonstrating what, in a 2003 article, its editor Christopher Pollnitz showed of that meticulous, tricontinental research that would no doubt elicit the ire of latter-day Menchers and like-minded anti-antiquarian critics but which is implied in the two-volume edition. An object in “materialistic [but not quite] mechanized” societies, the exhaustive Cambridge hardback is suited for well-funded internationalized libraries, and should bring Lawrence once more onto the global stage as a major figure in twentieth-century world poetry.21 To see the poems in their several contexts, their intertextualities and in the light of the last half-century or so of both poetry and scholarship should lead to a reassessment of not only Lawrence’s role but also the changes in the perception of poetry in general over the period. In his introduction to the 1972 Penguin

20

From the title of a talk he gave, 9th

April 1992, at the National University of Singapore. 21

For an assessment of the Cambridge edition, see Cushman (2013).

14

Selected Poems, Sagar quotes from D.J. Enright’s 1964 New Statesman review of the de Sola Pinto and Roberts edition that this volume “makes for oppressive, confusing and blunted reading” (11); Sagar says that he has “tried to fill [the] gap” left by what Enright calls the lack of a “critical selection” (Banerjee 250). Forty or more years on, the criteria for such a “selection” have changed, and a consideration of the 1971 TLS exchange is part of the etiology of such aesthetic and disciplinary evolution. At a time of cut-backs in university library funding, and given the high costs of the Cambridge volumes, Lawrence’s comment at the end of “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine” takes a new, chilling nuance: “the torch in the hands of the moneyless will set our house on fire, and burn us to death, like sheep in a flaming corral” (363).22 Forty years ago, having access to the primary texts, an edition of the letters, and a few critical works was sufficient for ground-breaking, if not biographical or ideological criticism (this latter, I believe, is still to come for the altered socioeconomic conditions of the twenty-first century). Such volumes were not available to all, and hence the claim to greater erudition could be maintained; now, with the presence of books and academic journals (e.g. digitized editions) on the internet, the architecture of scholarship has shifted, but the imposition of a hierarchy has not. Well-funded libraries now have virtual journal subscriptions, and set the tone for scholarly work, as they have always done. Lawrentian scholarship has been generally unscathed by, or belated in (depending on one’s viewpoint) the fashion for novelty that has recently informed criticism, but this might change when so many full texts are available on the internet (Amazon; Google), as that abiding principle remains valid, that access to that which is not generally available gives the kudos of scholarship. The internet often represents a soulless, “mechanized” supplement to the reading process, yet it has the potential to make vast libraries available at little cost, a promise which more than compensates for both the diminishment of experience (“men who sit at home in their slippers” [“Pan in America” 29]) and the new orthodoxies of virtual management. It can provide what is needed for an evaluation of Lawrence the poet: a near-definitive text, clear pathways to the earlier versions and drafts, and a viable chronology, all in one place. Such of course the Cambridge edition provides, but in its heavy deluxe edition. This could well be supplemented by a multifocal internet edition, such as the William Blake Archive or Beowulf on Steorarume (Beowulf in Cyberspace) which would speedily assist that global “navigation” in the attempt to move beyond the ascriptive, and to appreciate the silences, blank spaces and perspectival shifts at the heart of Lawrence’s poetry, not least in “The Red Wolf.” Such a dialectical appreciation, in turn, would usher in that change of fashion with regard to Lawrence of which Harold Bloom speaks in my epigraph.

22

Equally disconcerting is Eleanor Green’s lament in her “Editor’s Corner” of the DHLR (38.2 [2013]) that

there had been a lack of “publishable material” for the journal, even if slightly consoling for the

internationalization of the discipline is her remark about specific journals which have appeared, most

notably perhaps in East Asia.

15

Works Cited Banerjee, A., ed. D. H. Lawrence’s Poetry: Demon Liberated. A Collection of Primary and Secondary Material. London: Macmillan, 1990. Beer, John. Letter. TLS: The Times Literary Supplement 24 Sept. 1971: 1148. Bloom, Harold. Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds. New York: Warner, 2002. Bradbury, Malcolm. The Social Context of Modern English Literature. New York: Schocken,

1971. Chaudhuri, Amit. D.H. Lawrence and “difference.” Oxford: Clarendon, 2003. Comellini, Carla. “The Use of Myth in D. H. Lawrence’s Works.” First International Conference Language, Literature and Mythology: Book of Proceedings. Belgrade: Alfa University, 2013. 283-293. Confucius. Analects. Trans. James Legge. 1893. New York: Dover, 1971. Cushman, Keith. Review of Pollnitz, Christopher (ed.). The poems. DHLR 38.2 (2013): 85-89. Doherty, Gerald. “D. H. Lawrence's The Fox: A Question of Species.” DHLR 37.2 (2012): 1-21. Ellis, David. D. H. Lawrence: Dying Game 1922-1930. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 998. Fernihough, Anne. D. H. Lawrence: Aesthetics and Ideology. Oxford: Clarendon, 1996. Frazer, Sir James George. The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. 1890. Abridged ed. 1922. New York: Touchstone, 1996. Gilbert, Sandra M. Acts of Attention: The Poems of D. H. Lawrence. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1972. Gimbutas, Maria [Marija Gimbutienė]. “Religion and Mythology of the Balts.” Of Gods and

Holidays: The Baltic Heritage. Ed. Jonas Trinkūnas. Vilnius: Tvermė, 1999. 18-45. Hagen, Patricia L. ‘Metaphor’s Way of Knowing’: The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence and the Church of Mechanism. New York: Peter Lang, 1995. Heidegger, Martin. Basic Writings. 1977. Ed. David Farrell Krell. Revised and expanded edition. HarperSanFrancisco, 1993. ---. Der Ursprung des Kunstwerkes. 1936. Stuttgart: Reclam, 1995. Inniss, Kenneth. D. H. Lawrence’s Bestiary: A Study of His Use of Animal Trope and Symbol. The Hague: Mouton, 1971. Kinkead-Weekes, Mark. D. H. Lawrence: Triumph to Exile 1912-1922. [The Cambridge Biography]. Cambridge UP, 1996. Kipling, Rudyard. Works. Wordsworth Poetry Library. Ware, Hertfordshire: Wordsworth, 1994. Laird, Holly A. “‘Homunculus stirs’: Masculinity and the mock-heroic in Birds, Beasts and Flowers.” Eggert, Paul, and John Worthen, eds. Lawrence and Comedy. Cambridge UP, 1996. 109-130. ---. Self and Sequence: The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence. Charlottesville: UP of Virginia, 1988. Lawrence, D. H. Birds, Beasts and Flowers. New York: Seltzer, 1923. ---. Collected Poems. 2 vols. 1928. Single Volume Edition. London, William Heinemann, 1932. ---. Complete Poems. Eds. Vivian de Sola Pinto and F. Warren Roberts. 1964. London: Penguin, 1993. ---. The Fox. The Captain’s Doll. The Ladybird. Ed. Dieter Mehl. The Cambridge D. H. Lawrence in Penguin. London: Penguin 1994. ---. Letters. 8 vols. Gen. ed. James T. Boulton. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1979-2001. ---. Movements in European History. 1921. Ed. Philip Crumpton. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. ---. “New Mexico.” Phoenix. 141-47.

16

---. “Pan in America.” Phoenix. 22-31. ---. Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers of D. H. Lawrence. Ed. Edward A. MacDonald. London: Heinemann, 1936. ---. Poems 2 vols. Ed. Christopher Pollnitz. Cambridge UP, 2013. “Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine” and Other Essays. Ed. Michael Herbert. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1988. ---. Studies in Classic American Literature. 1923. London: Penguin, 1971. Lockwood, M. J. A Study of the Poems of D. H. Lawrence: Thinking in Poetry. London: Macmillan, 1987. Love, Glen A. Practical Ecocriticism: Literature, Biology, and the Environment. Charlottesville: U of Virginia P, 2003. Mandell, Gail Porter. The Phoenix Paradox: A Study of Renewal Through Change in the Collected Poems and Last Poems of D. H. Lawrence. Carbondale: S. Illinois UP, 1984. Meltzer, David, ed. The San Francisco Poets. New York: Ballantine, 1971. Mencher, M. B. Letter. TLS: The Times Literary Supplement 17 Sept. 1971: 1119. Moore, Harry T. Letter. TLS: The Times Literary Supplement 1 Oct. 1971: 1177. Murfin, Ross C. The Poetry of D. H. Lawrence: Texts and Contexts. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1983. Perloff, Marjorie. “Lawrence’s Lyric Theatre: Birds, Beast and Flowers.” D. H. Lawrence: A

Centenary Consideration. Eds. Peter Balbert and Phillip L. Marcus. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1985. 108-29.

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