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Borrow and Lawrence. The Language of Seduction and the Seduction of Language

George Hyde
p. 227-240

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1In her “personal record” of D.H. Lawrence published in 1935, Jessie Chambers remembers:

  • 1 “E.T.” (Jessie Chambers), A Personal Record (Frank Cass, 1965), 109.

Lawrence greatly admired George Borrow. He spent a whole sunny Saturday evening up on the Annesley Hills telling me about Borrow’s life and about Lavengro, making the story so vivid that Borrow seemed to be an actual acquaintance. He said that Borrow had mingled autobiography and fiction so inextricably in Lavengro that the most astute critics could not be sure where the one ended and the other began. From his subtle smile I felt he was wondering whether he might not do something in the same fashion himself. (E.T. 109-110)1

  • 2 D.H. Lawrence, Collected Letters, Vol. 2, ed. Zytaruk and Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 1981 (...)
  • 3 Ibid., Vol. 3, ed. Boulton and Robertson (C.U.P. 1984), 562.

2In the early decades of the twentieth century George Borrow, who died in 1881 and had briefly been a best seller in his lifetime, on the basis of his colourful record of his work in Spain with the British and Foreign Bible Society, was enjoying a new vogue with the help of discerning criticism by Saintsbury and the poet Edward Thomas, among others, who rightly saw him less as a travel writer and philologist, and more as a modernist forerunner with an idiosyncratic, asymmetrical version of what we now call “life-writing.” The two books that followed The Bible in Spain, Lavengro and The Romany Rye, now began to overshadow it. “Life-writing” is what Lawrence found in Borrow, a kind of fictionalised autobiography which keeps crossing the frontiers of the “stable ego,”2 testing social roles and identities, offering various projections of versions of the self. Borrow’s reputation endured, though somewhat attenuated, almost up until the Second World War, by which time many more extreme versions of unstable egos had supplanted his. However, in the 1920s, a little before the time that his Collected Works were being published in sixteen volumes (1923-4), we find Lawrence making another marginal reference to Borrow in his letters. Sir Compton Mackenzie had called his new boat Lavengro, in honour of the first volume of Borrow’s strange autobiography, and Lawrence, who was briefly thinking of sailing with Mackenzie to the South Seas in her, approves the name, the more so, as he says, because “she’s not called The Bible in Spain” (after Borrow’s better known best seller).3

  • 4 I refer here to Vol. 3., of course.

3The editors of Lawrence’s letters4 tell us somewhat misleadingly in a footnote that Lavengro was “a work of picaresque adventure,” which makes one wonder if they had actually read it. Borrow’s Romani title actually means “the language master,” by analogy with “petulengro,” the horseshoe master, or blacksmith, and “sapengro,” or snake master. Lavengro was the name given to Borrow by the Gypsies he met when he was engaged in swapping identities and quarrelling with what he called the “gentility” of the dominant English culture of his age. Borrow read as many as fifty-one languages, including Romani, and translated competently from up to forty-seven of them.

  • 5 George Borrow, Lavengro. There are numerous instances, but one of the most vivid is in Lavengro, Ch (...)
  • 6 Sigmund Freud, The Joke and its Relation to the Unconscious (1905), ed. and trans. Crick (London: P (...)
  • 7 Ibid.

4He was accepted as the forerunner of Romani scholarship in his generation, and in his vision of British culture he was a forerunner of multiculturalism in his refusal to marginalise the smaller language groups of the British Isles. The translating process was for him a way of “borrowing” identities (a pun he invoked himself), and part of his Oedipal revenge on his chauvinistic military father, who told him bluntly that language study was a waste of time, and certain British minorities (notably the Irish, a widely held view) degenerate.5 His fascination with languages enters into all his work, but nowhere more vividly than in Lavengro itself, and especially the celebrated rustic courtship of Belle Berners, which straddles the latter part of Lavengro and the earlier part of its sequel entitled The Romany Rye. The narrator “borrows” bits of Armenian vocabulary, syntax, and grammar, which he incorporates into word games, jokes, even, to serve as a language of courtship, as we shall see, with salacious puns slyly introduced in music-hall style to mask both repressed desire and sheer embarrassment. Like Freud’s jokes, in his famous study,6 Borrow’s Armenian puns lay bare a highly sexualised unconscious; indeed, for the mid-Victorian period they are quite risquee. There are analogies with Lawrence’s practices in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, as we shall see, where the “borrowed” vulgarities derived from the Nottinghamshire dialect of childhood, and the language of the popular (music hall) entertainer, dress up (or undress) the woodland courtship as a folkloristic puppet-show of cock and cunt, otherwise known as the transgressive protagonists John Thomas and Lady Jane. As Freud remarks (quoting Jean Paul) “Joking is the disguised priest who weds every couple.”7 The word games, as with Nabokov, in Lolita, may have to stand in for other kinds of foreplay, and Lawrence (unlike Borrow) wants us to take him very seriously indeed.

  • 8 Kingsley Widmer, “The Pertinence of Modern Pastoral: The Three Versions of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.(...)

5Its woodland settings, rustic outspokenness, and stylised theme of courtship and desire are what made William Empson bracket Lawrence’s last novel with the conventions of pastoral.8 No-one could fail to notice that Mellors is above all things a “Lavengro,” or language-master, to Borrow Borrow’s Romani coinage, brandishing his oral puppets most seductively, while he grapples with the Proteus of language, elaborating dialect in order to entertain, shock, and ultimately possess his lady. It was the notorious four letter words with their dark Anglo-Saxon and Celtic roots that got singled out as particularly obnoxious and unprintable at the time of the novel’s publication in Florence (to outwit English censors), and the ingenious re-appropriations and redefinitions of them in conjunction with other kinds of sexual language continue to fascinate, particularly for their class-bound gender markers: Mellors has that superior thing a phallus, while Connie only has has a cunt. (In the Romani vocabulary attached to his the Zincali borrow includes four calo—Spanish Romani Words—for the female genitals).

  • 9 D.H. Lawrence, Kangaroo, ed. Bruce Steele (C.U.P. 1994), ch. XIV, 269 et seq.
  • 10 Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, ed. Michael Squires (C.U (...)

6But the Borrow-esque subversion of gentility in Lady Chatterley’s Lover runs deep, and begins elsewhere. The “bitsy” narrative style that Lawrence went in for in his late period,9 as a sort of correlative for the resentful fascination he felt in the face of a new popular journalism, is shaped into a barbed comic weapon from Page One of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. In Kangaroo, the protagonist, Lovat Somers, a Lawrence lookalike, admires the “concise, laconic style” of the “bits” in the Bully, the Sydney Bulletin, an Australian newspaper which, it seems, cultivated a popular touch which we are told is quite unlike what the narrator calls “the stuffiness of English newspapers.” The Chatterley narrator embarks on his bitty, improvised narrative with an unsettling string of ad hoc aphorisms and knowing gestures towards his audience (addressed, in music hall style as “we”), as well as slangy cliches (“the war had brought the roof down over her head”) in order to introduce the assertively un-tragic tale of Sir Clifford, “shipped over to England […] more or less in bits” at the end of the War,10 a modern man as well as a tragic victim.

  • 11 Cf. G.M. Hyde: “Lady Chatterley’s Unlikely Bedfellow: George Robey and the Language of Lawrence’s L (...)
  • 12 Frieda married him after Lawrence’s death.

7A Modernist, or perhaps even post-modernist, aesthetic of fragments (a sort of collage effect of quoted and incomplete propositions) is coupled to an angular, gestural recitation-manner which encompasses both Sir Clifford’s pain and the challenging uncensored engagement with the “sex-thrill” as it’s distastefully called (in scare quotes) which threatens to “overpower” women if they are not careful, would you believe. The urgent need to name female parts and thereby “liberate” female sexuality is the biggest joke in all of this. It is this aspect of the Puritan heritage shared by Borrow and Lawrence that is in the end the most striking bond between them. Anyone interested may like to consult George Robey’s most famous music hall song on the subject of censorship, which Lawrence alludes to in Lady Chatterley a few times.11 Maybe our war narrative is engaging with three battlefields in this book: the historical and political one one that wrecked Sir Clifford’s life, the sexual minefield that made the novel notorious, inspired by the new power and freedom that women had found during and after the war; and then Lawrence’s battle with the Proteus of language, struggling as he is to find a form of narrative to deal with his forbidden materials, among the “bits” left over by the War, and thereby reassert the male potency which Frieda’s infidelity with their landlord had seriously challenged.12 He strikingly returns to the language of his father to do this.

  • 13 T.S. Eliot, “Marie Lloyd” in Selected Essays, Faber, 1999,” (essay sent to The Dial in 1923).
  • 14 Charles Baudelaire, “On the Heroism of Modern Life” (Salon of 1846, ed. Kelley. Oxford: The Clarend (...)

8To do justice to the dramatic tour-de-force of this brittle synthesis, in relation to the agonised search for the hidden power of the Saxon and Celtic “roots that clutch,” among the four-letter words foregrounded by Lawrence’s revivalist vernacular, is not easy. Take, for the moment, just one conspicuous detail I have mentioned, the oft-repeated phrase “That’s that!” in Chapter Six. The famous catch-phrase of the self-styled “Prime Minister of Mirth.” marks the boundaries of the decency, the pklace where a story ended. Bracketed by T.S. Eliot with Marie Lloyd,13 George Robey had a special gift for skirting the grotesque and arriving at a poetic way of surviving life’s potential for humiliation and defeat, a sort of off-beat modern heroism which his audiences loved because it celebrated a stoic power which life trie to cheat them out of. Marie Lloyd, says Eliot, represented “that part of the English nation which has perhaps the greatest vitality and interest,” a remarkable claim. Lawrence’s novel’s fictional encounter, via Robey, with the art of the music-hall, is by no means the first in his work. The travelling vaudeville theatre of the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, encountered by the heroine of The Lost Girl, is very close to music-hall. In The Rainbow, Will visits the music-hall partly because, like Lawrence, he enjoyed it, and partly on the lookout for extra-marital sex. Music-halls were always in danger of becoming explicitly and dangerously sexual, and were heavily policed mainly for this reason. In more recent times one thinks of Max Miller, a successful radio comedian, being banned by the BBC for a couple of outrageous sexual rhymes which I will censor out of my narrative. Stand-up comedians are the heirs to this defiant comedy of survival, “the heroism of everyday life.”14

9George Borrow, renegade Victorian as he was, never flouted the decencies of literary convention in the way Lawrence did, but he often reiterated his hostility to what he called “gentility” culture, and this is explicitly spelt out in the appendices to The Romany Rye and embodied throughout his life in his intimacy with the “ungenteel” gypsies and their subversive life-style. The crucial meeting with Belle Berners in the forest, which straddles Lavengro and The Romany Rye, and is therefore central to his Borrow’s great exercise in “life-writing,” dramatises the author’s discomfiture anddisempowerment in the face of a sexual challenge, and uses a specific language (to wit, Armenian, and especially a jocular version of it), as a way of regaining control. Yeats’s autocratic comment on Lawrence’s hunt for buried treasure in vulgar language, whatever its shortcomings, speaks volumes.

  • 15 W.B. Yeats, letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 22nd. May 1933. “The language is sometimes that of cabmen (...)

10These two lovers, the gamekeeper and his employer’s wife, each separated from their class by their love and fate, are poignant in their loneliness; the coarse language of the one accepted by both becomes a forlorn poetry, uniting their solitudes, something ancient, humble, and terrible.15

  • 16 The Nineteenth Century preoccupation with the Ur-Sprache is well described by Wikipedia in Protolan (...)

11Borrow’s equivalent of this forlorn poetry is the basic grammar and syntax of Armenian, proposed by Lavengro the Language Master, adopted reluctantly by Belle, uniting their solitudes. Its associations are likewise ancient, humble, and terrible enough, given that Armenia, in Borrow’s mind, is the land of Ararat and Noah’s Ark, and the home of an oppressed Christian people whose martyrdom at the hand of the Turks gave them a special standing for him, as it did for Byron, who also set out to learn the Armenian language. Armenian, said Borrow, contains an incomparable “mystery” and is (he says) “doomed to solve a great philological problem” (the old Victorian chestnut of the roots of language itself).16 But Borrow inserts into the heart of this mystery some mysterious games with the Armenian language itself, centred upon dubious jokes that lead (as Freud cleverly suggested) to the Unconscious.

12In the dream-logic that controls Borrow’s narrative, therefore, Armenia, for the ProtestantBorrow, allows two strangers and self-confessed outsiders to meet on common ground. Ararat, connoting for Borrow, as for Lawrence, God’s rainbow-promise of deliverance after the flood, means continuity, hope, marriage, and family, as it in Lawrence’s The Rainbow, where the influence of Borrow may again be detected. Here is the sheltering sky and divine dispensation, embodied in the sacrament of marriage and the powerful image of Noah’s Ark. But this does not prevent Armenian being, at the same time, a bit of a joke. Belle intuits that the Armenian language which Lavengro insists on teaching her is standing in for something else. Belle says that Lavengro wants to teach her this hard language, behinning with its abstruse grammar, in order “To prevent […]” something. To prevent what? “Ay ay,” he says, “to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable together.” To fill the silence of embarrassment (his not hers) “it would be as well to have a standing subject on which to employ our tongues,”says Lavengro. The outrageous sexual suggestiveness of the phrase “standing subject,” and the appeal to orality, exactly code the sexual frustration that never finds its discharge or resolution. The symbolic codes of the Armenian language, rendered peculiarly personal by a use of double entendre very like that of the music hall entertainer, draw a suggestive veil in front of the eyes of the idly curious. The composite language that results is actually a version of what is known as “macaronics,” a jocular slang compounded from different registers of English combined with (usually) Latin. Those who may be excited by the idea of a young man and woman consorting in the forest outside the law are thrown a few suggestive scraps which mask the complex fluctuating relations of Lavengro and Belle. The sexual politics, as with Lawrence, are extreme.

  • 17 Cf. See Young Park, “Lev Shestov’s Influence on D.H. Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield, and John Middle (...)
  • 18 Cf. History of Armenia, attrib. Movses Khorenatsi (410-490). Movses Khorenatsi. History of Armenia, (...)
  • 19 Bel and the “victory” are a tangential, coded allusion to Khorenatsi, op. cit. “Hayk was a handsome (...)

13Whereas Lawrence begins his linguistic inquiries from out of the disintegrating world of “bits,” welcoming (as did the Russian writers he admired at the time, Shestov and Rozanov)17 the creative possibilities this process of dissolution offered, Borrow’s language-lesson uses inter-linguistic misapprehensions and misinterpretations to defamiliarise. These begin with the word Haik, an unfamilar term which refers to the Armenian language, because the founding epic of Armenia18 casts a hero called Haik, a semi-mythological figure, in the role of supreme tribal leader. It is not without interest that Haik’s greatest victory was won over the Babylonian leader Bel.19 Lavengro’s Belle cannot know this, but she is astute enough to see that the pun on the word haik/hake (the latter being a kind of pot-hook) has a directly interpersonal application. “On the hake (pothook) of my memory I will hang your hake,” she says, realising that the old erotic sport of who “hooks” whom is being played out yet again. Of the Armenian numerals he teaches her (but which do not enter the text) she has remembered only the word for one, “me,” because that is precisely where she wishes to take her stand, on the first person singular. She is indeed asking, in different ways, and with good reason, what about me? Masculine desire is not, as Mellors seems to think, it’s own raison d’être. Belle has pretty well made her mind up to emigrate to America. Lavengro repeats the first three numerals (again not reproduced in the text, intensifying our sense of his inscrutable power) but she garbles them as “Me, jergo, earache”—as if to say, all this jargon is giving me an earache: in The Romany Rye (Ch. 28) the word “jergo” recurs, when Mr. Platitude declaims in bad Italian, which Borrow characterises as “jergo.” She has seen through Lavengro’s fearful charade.

14The dissolute publican, an important minor character, introduces a new explicitness by suggesting he might repair his ailing fortunes by organising a man-on-woman prize fight, with Belle and Lavengro as the participants, thus bringing them openly into the arena of dissolute sexuality.

15These bizarre language lessons may be said to climax twice, once in Lavengro with the noun, and the second time, more importantly, in The Romany Rye, with the verb. Although Lavengro rebukes Belle for “catching at words” and indulging in “vulgar” “workhouse” wordplay, he has led her knowingly down this road of implied meanings and regressive, or infantile, self-referentiality.

16On being told there are ten declensions of the noun in Armenian Belle resists, saying pertly “I decline the noun.” The noun Lavengro has chosen for this lesson is the Armenian for “master”: “You shall now go through masters in Armenian,” he says, suggestively. Appropriately, at this point in the dialogue a storm breaks. At the second climax, Lavengro says to Belle “this evening I intend to make you conjugate an Armenian verb,” and she replies “for this evening you shall command.”

17But it is a temporary retreat, and she is far from pleased with the consequences. “To command is Hramahyel,” said I. “Ram her ill, indeed,” said Belle. “I do not wish to begin with that.” Indeed, a little gentle foreplay might be welcome, or have we already had it, in cod Armenian? Belle has no wish to be subjected to the naked assault implied by Lavengro’s alienated dirty discourse. Again, “catching at words” suggests meanings that the Victorian reader might have considered improper, barely disguised here. Why should she rejoice indeed? (an Armenian verb he wishes to teach her, operating on both religious and sexual levels, as “jouissance” and uplift.) “I am sure I don’t rejoice, whatever you may do,” said Belle. His linguistic “jouissance” is not for her, long though his tongue may be (as she says). He is left to go on conjugating on his own.

18After upsetting her in this fashion, he seems to want to please her, so he tells her that the Armenian for “woman” is “ghin,” cognate with English “queen.” She has become the ambivalent other, the madonna/whore, reflecting the profound ambivalence that Borrow’s sexual hangups, and his “jergo,” spring from. As Belle says in a vivid moment of insight, “You never loved any one but yourself.” But the conjugating business has not yet come to an end. After trying to make Belle say“I love you” in Armenian, Lavengro invites her to America “to settle down in some forest, and conjugate the verb siriel (to love) conjugally.” By this time the reader is baffled as to how this strange philological encounter will resolve itself. The bizarre conclusion comes when Lavengro greets her refusal by saying “I am ready to try a fall with you this moment upon the Grass,” an echo of the dissolute landlord’s scheme for a mixed sex boxing match. The time for foreplay is surely over, and a sexual encounter should follow. By analogy, Belle now becomes Brunnhilde, and Lavengro Sigurd or Siegfried the serpent killer. The heroic or epic overtones are so powerful they stop the action (such as it is) dead in its tracks She tells him: “You are beginning to look rather wild”; to which he replies disarmingly “I every now and then do.” Belle leaves never to return. He entertains suitably wild thoughts of following her, a fate from which Gypsy Petulengro saves him.

19The courtship of Belle Berners seems to have lingered in Lawrence’s memory from his early Eastwood days when, as Jessie tells us, he greatly admired Borrow. Jessie and Lawrence could even be equated at some level with Lavengro and Belle, the courting couple who never “came together” but went through those agonies of personal torment which make Sons and Lovers so painful to read.

20When the long-delayed definitive study of Borrow’s influence on Lawrence is written, these forest murmurs will take their place in the saga of that mingling of autobiography and fiction, and of personal experience and the potential of language for renewal, that Lawrence liked so much, and sought to emulate. It may be objected that Borrow’s love scene is above all an exercise in displacement, while Lawrence celebrates sexual union. But if we think of the circumstances in which Lawrence’s heated fantasy of renewed youthful virility was written, namely Frieda’s affair with Angelo Ravagli, and his knowledge that he, Lawrence, had been supplanted, the elaborate “linguosexuality” of Lawrence’s last novel may not seem so far from Borrow’s. In both instances a “lavengro” or language master has moved centre stage to mask discomfiture and restore order. This exuberant orality is with both writers a sort of creative regression, or in Lawrence’s phrase “lapsing out” in order to start again. David Crystal, in his book Language Play (1998), notes how children play with sounds, especially when they are alone, or in the dark, to help them to confront the unknown. What is more, what Crystal calls “being naughty with language,” something both our authors do, lends itself to the kinds of creative improvisations Mellors indulges in when he make Her Ladyship the generous gift of her own sexuality, that elusive entity that all those strapping young Germans of her youthful adventures somehow couldn’t put their ham-fisted fingers on.

21Lawrence’s novel in the end belongs to a different century from Borrow’s life-writing, and yet the distance from Borrow’s puritan embarrassment to Lawrence’s exclusive and exalted version of sexual liberation does not seem so great after all. From our own standpoint, in these days of ubiquitously graphic but strangely meaningless cocks and cunts, both writers look like fascinating forerunners of a revolution that never came, or at any rate was never completed, the crucial event that might make it possible to see “the sex thing” as it really is, instead of distorted always by prudery and pornography, as Lawrence thought it still was.

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Notes

1 “E.T.” (Jessie Chambers), A Personal Record (Frank Cass, 1965), 109.

2 D.H. Lawrence, Collected Letters, Vol. 2, ed. Zytaruk and Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 1981), 183.

3 Ibid., Vol. 3, ed. Boulton and Robertson (C.U.P. 1984), 562.

4 I refer here to Vol. 3., of course.

5 George Borrow, Lavengro. There are numerous instances, but one of the most vivid is in Lavengro, Ch. 9, “Irish,” Collected Works, Vol. 3, ed. Shorter (London: Constable, 1923-4), 97.

6 Sigmund Freud, The Joke and its Relation to the Unconscious (1905), ed. and trans. Crick (London: Penguin Books, 2002).

7 Ibid.

8 Kingsley Widmer, “The Pertinence of Modern Pastoral: The Three Versions of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.Studies in the Novel (University of North Texas, 1973) Vol. 5, no 3, 298-313.

9 D.H. Lawrence, Kangaroo, ed. Bruce Steele (C.U.P. 1994), ch. XIV, 269 et seq.

10 Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and A Propos of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, ed. Michael Squires (C.U.P. 2002), 5.

11 Cf. G.M. Hyde: “Lady Chatterley’s Unlikely Bedfellow: George Robey and the Language of Lawrence’s Last Novel.” The Journal of the D.H. Lawrence Society (Autumn 2000), 17-35.

12 Frieda married him after Lawrence’s death.

13 T.S. Eliot, “Marie Lloyd” in Selected Essays, Faber, 1999,” (essay sent to The Dial in 1923).

14 Charles Baudelaire, “On the Heroism of Modern Life” (Salon of 1846, ed. Kelley. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1975). “We are each of us celebrating some funeral,” he says.

15 W.B. Yeats, letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 22nd. May 1933. “The language is sometimes that of cabmen, and yet the book is all fire. Those two lovers, the gamekeeper and his employer’s wife, each separated from their class by their love and by fate, are poignant in their loneliness, and the coarse language of the one, accepted by both, becomes a forlorn poetry uniting their solitudes, something ancient, humble, and terrible.” W.B.Yeats, Letters, ed. Alan Wade (London: Rupert Hart-Davis, 1954), 298.

16 The Nineteenth Century preoccupation with the Ur-Sprache is well described by Wikipedia in Protolanguages.

17 Cf. See Young Park, “Lev Shestov’s Influence on D.H. Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield, and John Middleton Murry.” Notes and Queries, June 2004, Vol. 51, issue 2, 165.

18 Cf. History of Armenia, attrib. Movses Khorenatsi (410-490). Movses Khorenatsi. History of Armenia, 5th Century. Annotated translation and commentary by Stepan Malkhasyants. Gagik Kh. Sargsyan ed. (Yerevan: Hayastan Publishing, 1997).

19 Bel and the “victory” are a tangential, coded allusion to Khorenatsi, op. cit. “Hayk was a handsome, friendly man, with curly hair, sparkling eyes, and strong arms. He was a man of giant stature a mighty archer and fearless warrior. Hayk and his people from the time of their forefathers Noah and Japheth had migated south towards the warmer lands near Babylon. In that land there ruled a wicked giant, Bel. Bel tried to impose his tyranny upon Hayk’s people but proud Hayk refused to submit to Bel.”

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George Hyde, « Borrow and Lawrence. The Language of Seduction and the Seduction of Language », Études Lawrenciennes, 44 | 2013, 227-240.

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George Hyde, « Borrow and Lawrence. The Language of Seduction and the Seduction of Language », Études Lawrenciennes [En ligne], 44 | 2013, mis en ligne le 01 avril 2014, consulté le 29 mai 2017. URL : http://lawrence.revues.org/201 ; DOI : 10.4000/lawrence.201

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Auteur

George Hyde

George Hyde’s publications include a study of the Russian heritage of Vladimir Nabokov, two books on D.H. Lawrence, and literary translations from Russian and Polish, as well as numerous essays in the field of Modernism. He has published a number of essays on the neglected Norwich writer George Borrow, which will form the basis of a monograph.

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