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Image: The First Lady Chatterley, D.H. Lawrence, 1973 Penguin edition
She ran into the park, running with impatience, as if running away from something. She recognized the power that passion had assumed over her. She felt strange, different from herself. It was all very well entering on these voyages of new and passionate adventure, but they carried you from yourself. They did not leave you where you were, not what you were. No, she was aware of a strange woman inside herself, a woman wakened up and imperious. She was running now to get home to tea, but she was running also to get away from this new thing that had come upon her. She was running to escape from the woman inside herself, the woman who felt so fierce and so tender and at the same time, so soft and boundless and gentle, but also so remorseless, like the sea.
All her life Constance had been known for her quiet good sense. She had seemed to be the one really reasonable woman on earth. Now she knew this was gone. She had burst out as if from a chrysalis shell, and she had emerged a new creature, in feeling at least. Why did nobody ever prepare one for these metamorphoses? Why was one never told that the great facts of life, and the great danger, was this starting of the whole being, body and soul and mind, in a new flux that would change one away from the old self as a landscape is transfigured by earthquake and lava floods, or by spring and the coming of summer. — D.H. Lawrence, The First Lady Chatterley (The first version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover) first published in 1944
This is post seven of the “Restless Reader” a Leisure bibliography of restlessness in literature.