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No Dancing Matter: The Language of Dance and Sublimation in D.H. Lawrence

Marina Ragachewskaya
p. 187-204

Texte intégral

What can I do but dance alone
Dance to the sliding sea and the moon…?
“Tarantella” (Works 95)

1The rhetorical question from Lawrence’s poem “Tarantella” is somewhat ominous, asserting as it does the strange isolation of the dancing persona or the voiced spirit of dance itself. The mystery of dance always seemed to fascinate Lawrence, whose attitude to it was somewhat ambiguous. For Lawrence, dance was an issue of psychic importance, one which he addressed throughout his work.

2The motif of dance in Lawrence’s fiction and non-fiction has been excellently explored by Mark Kinkead-Weekes, Jack Stewart, Elgin W. Mellown and Magali Roux. Mellown states that the dancing scenes in Lawrence serve as structural metaphors through which to convey social meaning. He argues that “The dance form establishes the […] social level of the characters” (Mellown 56). Moreover, when Lawrence “wants to emphasize the story embodied in a dance […] he describes it in terms of the Russian Ballet [Nijinsky’s influence]; when, however, he wants to emphasize the physical, bodily movement of the dancer, he uses terms that suggest the new modern dance” (Mellown 56). An example of this would be the mention of Dalcroze in “Water-Party,” Chapter XIV of Women in Love (1920). It must however be agreed that a certain evolution in Lawrence’s stylistic approach to the depiction of dance is evident, from the early works through the Mexican period and to the later writing. Roux thus observes that Lawrence’s realistic style for the description of dance is gradually replaced by a language which strives to approximate or intimate a particular moment in dance (Roux 364), what Stewart terms “[m]ovement becom[ing] meaning” (Stewart 62). Both critics thus suggest that Lawrence in fact apprehended dance as a supplementary form of the “art of speech,” analogous to expressionism in literature and painting (Stewart 80). Kinkead-Weekes’s study comes to the conclusion that there is a progression in Lawrence’s attitude to the dance. From being an occasion for the revelation of the “deeper self” of his characters, dance eventually acquires the status of a form of religion.

3However the question which may be taken further is the interpretation of the dance scenes in Lawrence’s fiction from a psychoanalytic perspective, focusing on their rich manifest content involving a subtle interplay of sign and meaning. If it is true that, as Mallarmé suggested, dance is corporeal writing (“écriture corporelle,” Mallarmé 173), it may equally be valid to regard the verbal representation of dance as written corporeality.

4I therefore wish to identify three types of dancing episodes in Lawrence’s fiction. First, there is the status of dancing as an art form governed by certain rules of organization. This refers to ballroom dance and to other social dances which we read about in Sons and Lovers (1913), when Gertrude watches the colliers dance, or similar scenes in “The White Stocking” (1914) or in The Rainbow (1912) and Women in Love, or the sporadic mention of dance in relation to the dancing parties of the aristocracy in Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928). Second, there is the form of intense, often hypnotic, trance-like or dream-like self-expression in scenes such as Gudrun’s dancing before the herd of cattle, Anna Brangwen dancing in pregnancy, or Connie’s dancing in the rain. Third, what is the most conceptually mature mode of dance, there are the scenes of ritualistic group dancing, through which there is the intimation of a different language and pattern of meaning and being, achieved by way of the connection with the natural flux of energy and emotion. Such a complex cultural code, otherwise incommunicable, is found in The Plumed Serpent (1926) in “The Woman Who Rode Away” (1928).

5Social dance is clearly a metaphor for the intellectual and social sophistication of an elite coterie. As such it is treated by Lawrence with a marked distrust, so that he rarely bothers to give the reader a fuller picture of these scenes. The other two forms of dance, by contrast, require a specific vocabulary or idiom that will render them by way of a comprehensible and effective literary representation. Jane C. Desmond laments somewhat disapprovingly: “It is surprising how negligent sociology and cultural studies have been to dance” (MM 207). Adding to this complaint, we may assert that psychoanalysis has paid very little attention to the verbal representation of dance either. Lawrence’s fiction in this respect may offer some interesting food for analysis.

6The synthetic connection between the art of dance and that of literature, was focused on both by Isadora Duncan and, in current semiotic theory, by Julia Kristeva. For Duncan and for Kristeva, language and movement are forms of composition, with the movement stemming, according to Duncan, from the solar plexus, “the temporal home of the soul” (Duncan 244), or, as Kristeva writes, from the “genotext,” positioned as the hearth or source of language. Thus, according to Kristeva, the genotext “includes drives, their disposition, and their division of the body” (Kristeva 86). This theory can enable us to arrive at an understanding of how the body functions in a text and also as a text in Lawrence’s novels and stories.

7For Lawrence, the language of dance represents much more than the conventional description of organized structural movements, as predetermined by an artistic genre. Lawrence resorts to dancing scenes when seeking a means to express the inexpressible, to show the fleeting and ungraspable fluidity of subtle emotion. Early descriptions of this kind of dance are to be found in The White Peacock (1911) and Sons and Lovers. Kinkead-Weekes notes that in this period of his career dancing is not yet fully comprehended by Lawrence. His representations of it take the form of a search for what human beings “are at their innermost, unbeknownst to themselves” (Kinkead-Weekes 59). Thus the dancing scenes in The White Peacock represent a probing into the depth of the unconscious, the first sign of an opposition between the natural and the social, the first vague suspicion of the similarity between the rhythmical movement of dancing bodies and sex, and “a total abandonment of self in passionate movement, reaching out beyond normal control and endurance to a point of collapse” (Kinkead-Weekes 60). Such is the scene where George and Lettie dance:

But they whirled on in the dance, on and on till I was giddy, till the father, laughing, cried that they should stop. But George continued the dance; her hair was shaken loose, and fell in a great coil down her back; her feet began to drag; you could hear a light slur on the floor; she was panting—I could see her lips murmur to him, begging him to stop; he was laughing with open mouth, holding her tight; at last her feet trailed; he lifted her, clasping her tightly, and danced twice round the room with her thus. (WP 94)

8It is noteworthy that the deeper probing into “character” leads to a greater and richer expressiveness and complexity in the dancing scenes. This is evident in “The White Stocking,” where we see an attempt to turn a banal social dance into a form of hypnotic experience: “Every Christmas Sam Adams gave a party at his house, to which he invited his superior work-people—not factory hands and labourers, but those above” (WS 86). Lawrence’s awareness of organized social dancing as “classy” involves the public association, in terms of the social norms of the milieu being described, between strength of character and the ability to dance well. Thus the fact that “Mr. Whiston doesn’t dance” (87) immediately excludes him from the middle-class circle, turning him into a passive observer, while the energy, power and maleness of the stronger Sam Adams find expression in the way he dances.

He was an excellent dancer. He seemed to draw her close in to him by some male warmth of attraction, so that she became all soft and pliant to him, flowing to his form, whilst he united her with him and they lapsed along in one movement. She was just carried in a kind of strong, warm flood, her feet moved of themselves, and only the music threw her away from him, threw her back to him, to his clasp, to his strong form moving against her, rhythmically, deliciously.(87)

9Here, as elsewhere in the episodes describing dancing scenes, there is neither an intense pictorial nor a virtuosic description of dance. In other words, Lawrence does not approach the relation between dance and literary representation by way of the figurative strategies of ekphrasis. The language of (or rather for the depiction of) dance does not present the dance. It rather re-presents the inner intensity of the dancers’ feelings. There is an awareness of the outer space and of the partner’s body. The very way the bodies move is beyond the mind’s eye, as Roux also points out: “Lawrence does not try to reproduce gesture by gesture” (Roux 364). Instead, the focus is on the merging of mind and body, time and space, sound and the tactile sensation of body parts touching the ground and each other. Dance here has a specific vocabulary, albeit a different one from the idiom of dance as gesture, as described by Judith Lynne Hanna, a dance critic. The vocabulary is almost exclusively adjectival: “delicious,” “oblivious,” “concentrated,” “unseeing,” “voluptuous,” “molten,” “intoxicated.” The dance also has its grammar, inasmuch as Lawrence articulates these descriptions of emotion and the verbal structures whose sequence is meant to convey them. It involves the rhythmical oscillation between the inner sensation and the outer glimpses of body parts, the room, the partner, and back to the dancers again. The dance has its specific morphology, consisting of the male and the female dancing bodies and the onlookers’ gaze, the latter being devoid of any gender specification. This dance also has its meaning, very similar to the meaning we infer from any linguistic act: what the viewer tends to read into what he sees. So, what it means for Whiston is not what it means for Elsie. Like language, this dance is arbitrary. Many of its characteristics are simply unpredictable: “Every moment, and every moment, she felt she would give way utterly, and sink molten, […] fuse down into perfect unconsciousness” (WS 89). Like language, dance also involves displacement, the reference to something that is not immediately present, but that is implicit, like sexual desire. What is more, there is a wide range of potential participants in Sam and Elsie’s process of communication. Thus Whiston reads his own jealous meaning into the dance, and we might suggest that this kind of hypnotic experience, so insistently emphasised in the passage above, carries weighty implications for the conceptualization of the unconscious and its relation to the body “and the ways in which representation might illuminate and transform desire” (Townsend 75). No doubt the eroticism of this dancing scene is sublimated by way of a poetic stylization, when the author uses the vocabulary and grammar of a sexual act to describe dance: “She became soft and pliant to him”, “his strong form moving against her, rhythmically” (WS 87).

10Havelock Ellis, the renowned British sexologist, established a correlation between dancing and sexual desire: “[Dancing] has an equally intimate association with love. […] It is a process of courtship and, even more than that, it is a novitiate for love, and a novitiate which was found to be an admirable training for love” (Ellis 43-44). From this perspective, the dance scene in Lady Chatterley’s Lover is the naked self-expression of the cathartic sexual desire, and a carnivalesque form of sublimation of joy:

She was ivory-coloured in the greenish light. She slipped on her rubber shoes again and ran out with a wild little laugh, holding up her breasts to the heavy rain and spreading her arms, and running blurred in the rain with the eurhythmic dance movements she had learned so long ago in Dresden. It was a strange pallid figure lifting and falling, bending so the rain beat and glistened on the full haunches, swaying up again and coming belly-forward through the rain, then stooping again so that only the full loins and buttocks were offered in a kind of homage towards him, repeating a wild obeisance.
He laughed wryly, and threw off his clothes. It was too much. He jumped out, naked and white, with a little shiver, into the hard slanting rain. Flossie sprang before him with a frantic little bark. (221)

11In this novel Lawrence seems finally to have come to grips with dance. It may be surprising, but in what is the most erotic of all the prose works, there will be no further elaboration on the rich expressiveness of passionate women dancing. Instead, with May’s words in a conversation (Ch 4) with Hammond and Clifford, we come to realize Lawrence’s own conclusion: “I can’t see I do a woman any more harm by sleeping with her than by dancing with her […]. It ‘s just all interchange of sensations instead of ideas” (LCL 33).

12Lawrence here seems to follow a command to write the dance into narrative, to save the ephemeral by committing it to memory and to language. One such subtle moment may refer to Frieda’s dancing in the summer of 1912, in their apartment at Icking, when, as Jacqueline Gouirand writes, Frieda danced nude, “liberated from all conventions, exulting the beauty of a summer day” (Gouirand 82). Gouirand goes on to describe this as a paradisiacal picturesque movement of bucolic bliss.

To read all Lawrence’s dancing scenes merely in terms of their erotic and sexual connotation would however be reductive. These scenes demonstrate how a body both defines and contests its socially constructed limits. In “The White Stocking,” Elsie lacks vital space, her gesture and movement are quick, vivacious, “flicking.” Throughout the story her swiftness, impulsiveness and exceptional drive for movement, regarded by an observer as slovenliness, a lack of self-control and proper manners, are the productive components of the pre-language stage, a psychic defence from a spiritual claustrophobia. When she is dancing with Sam Adams “she was conscious of him [Whiston] standing there observant of her, like a ghost, or a judgment, or a guardian angel” (WS 90). When subjected to the gaze of desiring eyes, she is an intoxicated woman, drunk with movement. Since she is a dancer and not an observer, like Kate in The Plumed Serpent, she manages to go beyond the trap of neurotic fixation, in contrast to the impasse of the observer, whose inner contradiction reach a point of tension, as in the case of Whiston’s traumatic jealousy or Birkin’s staring “like a hermit crab from its hole” (WL 92) as Ursula dances. This predicament is also exemplified by Kate, before she joins the dance: “[she] was at once attracted and repelled” (PS 131), or, most powerfully, by the woman in “The Woman Who Rode Away,” who seems “to feel her own death, her own obliteration” (WWRA 60). The observer position, in the presence of the fervour of dance, would seem both to cause and to symbolise a sense of profound frustration: “The sharpness and the quivering nervous consciousness of the highly-bred white woman was to be destroyed again […]” (WWRA 60).

13Echoing Kinkead-Weekes’ observation about Lawrence’s progress with his “dancing matters”—that he explored “the marriage of opposites [as] the very ground of creative growth” (64)—I would like to concentrate on the affective connotations of the language of dance in relation to the psychic and cultural challenge of breaking through the constraints of social expectations and moving from a passive to a more active psychic position. The Rainbow and Women in Love address this challenge.

14No matter how much spontaneity and unconscious energy is harboured in the dancing characters of (predominantly) women, the choice of episodes for such self-expression is rather deliberate. Thus in the critically significant chapter of The Rainbow, “Anna Victrix,” Anna’s sudden need to dance is clearly grounded in the earlier description of her childhood: “Brangwen hushed the child and Anna flipped and danced on. She loved her wild bursts of rowdiness with her father. Tilly hated it, Mrs. Brangwen did not mind” (R 80). Dance is here the upsurge of the repressed femaleness within her that is brought about by her pregnancy: “She danced in secret and her soul rose in bliss” (R 179). Then her thoughts revert to the Creator, and the justification of her “unsaid,” strange and even terrifying dance is found in an allusion to the Bible: “She liked the story of David who danced before the Lord, and uncovered himself exultingly” (R 80).

  • 1 The term “femme” is used “to refer to sexual identity and gender presentation. […] … a ‘femme’ dres (...)

15The author, as the one who “speaks” on behalf of the characters, seems to be in need of some “comfortable” justification for the singular things which these beings are apt to do. Dancing is very much an aspect of “femme power” (moments when a woman is aware of and enjoys harnessing the power, strength and mysteries commonly associated with notions of femininity).1 As we see later, in the famous Naomi, Ruth and Orpah dance that is performed in Women in Love, Gudrun is the one whom Lawrence calls the “woman loving,” endowed with the “ultimate but treacherous cleaving to the woman in her sister” (WL 91-92), and it is here that “femme power” takes an active psychic stance. As Elizabeth Grosz explains, the Deleuzian model figures desire as movement: “Instead of aligning desire with fantasy and opposing it to the real, instead of seeing it as a yearning, desire is an actualization, a series of practices […]. Desire does not take for itself a particular object whose attainment it requires; rather it aims at nothing above its own proliferation or self-expansion. […]. It moves, it does” (Grosz 163). Both here and also later on in the “bull dance” Gudrun is both a woman and not a woman. Her power lies in the fusion within the imagination of the viewer of what she is and what she represents:

[…] quicker, fiercer went Gudrun in the dance, stamping as if she were trying to throw off some bond, flinging her hands suddenly and stamping again, then rushing with face uplifted and throat full and beautiful, and eyes half closed, sightless. The sun was low and yellow, sinking down, and in the sky floated a thin, ineffectual moon. (WL 166)

16In this scene Lawrence fuses “femme power” with a beastly potency and with the sun and moon’s uncontrollability, while controlling the rhythm of his prose in Gudrun’s movements. The very rhythm serves for the reader as the sign of some kind of organisation, otherwise it would not be perceived as dance.

17Returning to Anna’s dance of pregnancy, we can observe that, in the words of the narrator, Anna “danced in the pride of her bigness” (R 179), but to her husband-observer Will Brangwen, “[t]hat isn’t dancing” (R 181). So when, and under what conditions, does the swaying of the body, the gestures of hand-lifting and knee-lifting become dancing? For whenever the writer chooses to qualify it as such, the qualification seems an arbitrary one.

18We cannot gather much from the description of this particular dancing scene, except that Anna lifted her hands, “swayed backwards and forwards, like a full ear of corn” (R 180), naked and with an uplifted belly. The corporeal language is both vague and common. With Freud in mind, a psychoanalytic interpretation of the scene might lead us to remark the patent defence mechanisms of reasoning as it strives to divert and sublimate the unconscious drive of aggression (the woman’s somatic instinct of protection of her sibling from outer danger or threat). For Will, this end or consummation of the dance is his annihilation, his achievement of an extremity of non-existence: “The strangeness, the power of her dancing consumed him” (R 181). This “femme power” is characterized by Kinkead-Weekes as “a battle for dominance” (65). Indeed in many ways, “the dance now becomes a contest of will and power. Instead of the opposites seeking to marry, to die to each other in order to be born anew, each tries to dominate completely, making the other nothing” (Kinkead-Weekes 67).

19However, when the scene where Ursula dances with Skrebensky is read closely, we can point to the fact that it takes place just before Ursula’s discovery of the men’s world, in the Chapter “First Love.” The particular passage is marked by a peculiar dancing rhythm of ebb and flow, the up-and-down, wave-like movement:

So they danced | four or five dances,| always together, | always his will | becoming more tense, | his body more subtle, | playing upon her.|| And still he had not got her, | she was hard and bright as ever, | intact.|| But he must weave himself round her, | enclose her, | enclose her in a net of shadow, | of darkness, | so she would be like a bright creature | gleaming in a net of shadows, | caught. || Then he would have her, | he would enjoy her. || How he would enjoy her, | when she was caught. ||
At last, when the dance was over, she would not sit down, she walked away. He came with his arm round her, keeping her upon the movement of his walking. And she seemed to agree. She was bright as a piece of moonlight, as bright as a steel blade, he seemed to be clasping a blade that hurt him. Yet he would clasp her, if it killed him. (WL 318-319).

20The similes which describe Ursula as “bright as a piece of moonlight, as bright as a steel blade” (WL 319) are the dynamic representations of a morphology freed from the restrictions of gendered structures. They involve a combination of femininity and male symbolism which reconfigures the female body as a power that is both feminine and denaturalized. The scene achieves Ursula’s first escape, expressed in dance, from gender constraints. In similar fashion, Townsend asks: “Doesn’t it imply that femininity is an illusion, a mask worn and an image performed?” (Townsend 87).

21There is another representation of “femme power” in Women in Love, where Gudrun’s dancing enacts a metamorphosis of the female morphology into an unrecognizable other in the face of a herd of oxen. It may also be that Gudrun in both the successive dancing scenes is at once a woman and yet not a woman, as she questions and breaks clear of gender constraints through dance:

She sounded purely anxious. Nevertheless, Gudrun, with her arms outspread and her face uplifted, went in a strange palpitating dance towards the cattle, lifting her body towards them as if in a spell, her feet pulsing as if in some little frenzy of unconscious sensation, her arms, her wrists, her hands stretching and heaving and falling and reaching and reaching and falling, her breasts lifted and shaken towards the cattle, her throat exposed as in some voluptuous ecstasy towards them, whilst she drifted imperceptibly nearer, an uncanny white figure, towards them, carried away in its own rapt trance, ebbing in strange fluctuations upon the cattle, that waited, and ducked their heads a little in sudden contraction from her, watching all the time as if hypnotised, their bare horns branching in the clear light, as the white figure of the woman ebbed upon them, in the slow, hypnotising convulsion of the dance. She could feel them just in front of her, it was as if she had the electric pulse from their breasts running into her hands. Soon she would touch them, actually touch them. A terrible shiver of fear and pleasure went through her. And all the while, Ursula, spell-bound, kept up her high-pitched thin, irrelevant song, which pierced the fading evening like an incantation. (WL 166)

22While a common interpretation of the scene is to read it as an assertion of her power by Gudrun, even as she remains enclosed within her “hollow self condition” (Shapiro 4), it can also be pointed out that, instead of a controlled wilful use of her body, she displays a loss of control with its attendant embarrassments and triumphs, the latter being a breakthrough which takes the self beyond the inner split between the savage and the civilized, beyond a frail and an emancipated condition of womanhood.

23If the motif of dance constitutes a language in the works, the ritualistic collective dance of the Native Americans (Lawrence calls them Indians) is a powerful dialect, an antithesis to the European language of artistic dance that is presented as an alternative to European or “white” culture. If the social dances and those expressive of the self are governed by some organizing “I,” the subjective self, the Indian dance involves an almost total obliteration of this “I,” its sacrificing to the collective group and to total unconsciousness. The challenge for Lawrence was to convey this transformation through language. As a motif to be incorporated into the fictional narrative, the ritualistic dance of the Indian community is unquestionably a stage in Lawrence’s search for the means to verbalize dance. The lengthy scene in The Plumed Serpent reads as a masterpiece of art’s fusional potential, a subtle interplay of narrative, poetry, prayer, dance and ritual. Dance is only a part of the inclusive totality. Its meaning is inseparable from the poem which precedes it, from the story of Quetzalcoatl or from the drum:

And the dancers, after dancing in a circle in a slow, deep absorption, each man changeless in his own place, treading the same dust with the soft churning of bare feet, slowly, slowly began to revolve, till the circle was slowly revolving round the fire, with always the same soft down-sinking, churning tread. (PS 138)

24The scene is a response to quite a different motive: the will to write otherness into the self, that is, to achieve a textual and narrative expression of the experience which is the source of anxiety. As Grosh puts it: “What any body is capable of doing is beyond the tolerance of any given culture” (Space 206). Hence we witness Kate’s reaction: she was “at once attracted and repelled, she was attracted, almost fascinated by the circle. It was like a darkly glowing, vivid nucleus of new life. Repellent the strange heaviness, the sinking of the spirit into the earth, like dark water. Repellent the silent, dense opposition to the pale-faced spiritual direction” (PS 131). Lawrence adopts a rhythmical prose in order to bring together the audio-visual-kinetic experience and the written word: “Her feet were feeling the way into the dance-step, she was beginning to learn softly to loosen her weight, to loosen the uplift of all her life, and let it pour slowly, darkly, with an ebbing gush, rhythmical in soft, rhythmic gushes from her feet into the dark body of the earth” (PS 141).

25As Ramsay Burt writes, “While dance may induce a bodily response, any such response is mediated though the spectator’s eyes and thereby becomes subject to the protocols of the gaze” (Burt 221). The subliminal energy in the observer’s psyche produces an effect amounting to a verbal form of introspection. Similarly, in Pat Barker’s novel The Ghost Road the psychoanalyst Rivers, while studying tribal cultures in Africa, observes: “The language of introspection was simply not available” (GR 132). In this condition the outer world is a law for the inner self.

26With this in mind, I wish to suggest that sublimation in the Indian group dance is of a different kind: it is a model of exteriorized corporeality, where social, cultural and historical forces can be observed at work, both inscribing and incising a bodily surface: the law is written upon the body. What is performed is “a body’s enculturation, its training and participation in socialized and cultural ways of moving” (Bollen 301).

27In his depiction of the Indian dance in the story “The Woman Who Rode Away,” Lawrence also focuses on the collective mode of decision-making that is in process: “It went on all day, the insistence of the drum, the cavernous roaring, storm-like sound of male singing, the incessant swinging of the fox-skins behind the powerful, gold-bronze, stamping legs of the men […]” (WWRA 60). Instead of competing as individuals, they exuberantly pursue collective goals. This subliminal energy of the Indian dance is ultimately brought back on the European soil as a utopia described in Mellors’ final letter to Connie:

If the men wore scarlet trousers as I said, they wouldn’t think so much of money: if they could dance and hop and skip, and sing and swagger and be handsome, they could do with very little cash. And amuse the women themselves, and be amused by the women. They ought to learn to be naked and handsome, and to sing in a mass and dance the old group dances, and carve the stools they sit on, and embroider their own emblems. Then they wouldn’t need money. (LCL 299-300)

28In conclusion, I wish to suggest that Lawrence’s use of dance scenes in his novels and stories is not merely a question of metaphor or metonymy. These charged and powerful scenes enact a mode of identification with what is a strange and “other” culture. They seek to express the unconscious by way of a different medium: through the body and by approaching a dream reality unconstrained by the limits and expectations of society; through the poetic rendering of synthetic imagery and through the actualization of the dancers’ real life; through the elaboration of a literary mode whose task is the figuring of corporeal being; through the achievement of a performative iconicity of language, its verbal embodiment of what it represents. It is as if Lawrence had stalked the moving bodies of the dancers, adjusting the cadences of his writing to the rhythm of the dance, thus seizing the essence of the fleeting, momentary rapture of the bodies, caught in the movement of the words for the observant attention of the reader.

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Bibliographie

Works Cited

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Schapiro, Barbara Ann. D.H. Lawrence and the Paradoxes of Psychic Life. New York: State University of New York Press, 1999.

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Notes

1 The term “femme” is used “to refer to sexual identity and gender presentation. […] … a ‘femme’ dresses and acts in ways traditionally associated with femininity. […] The term […] most often refer[s] to lesbian norms and contexts” (Encyclopedia 47).

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Marina Ragachewskaya, « No Dancing Matter: The Language of Dance and Sublimation in D.H. Lawrence », Études Lawrenciennes, 44 | 2013, 187-204.

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Marina Ragachewskaya, « No Dancing Matter: The Language of Dance and Sublimation in D.H. Lawrence », Études Lawrenciennes [En ligne], 44 | 2013, mis en ligne le 01 avril 2014, consulté le 19 novembre 2017. URL : http://lawrence.revues.org/196 ; DOI : 10.4000/lawrence.196

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Auteur

Marina Ragachewskaya

Marina Ragachewskaya, Associate Professor at Minsk State Linguistics University, Belarus, has published numerous articles on D.H. Lawrence and other British and American authors in Belarus, Russia, Lithuania, France, England and Slovakia focusing on psychoanalysis, modernism and text analysis.

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Études lawrenciennes est mis à disposition selon les termes de la licence Creative Commons Attribution - Pas de Modification 4.0 International.

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