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A Sense of Touch: Henry Moore and D.H. Lawrence

Jane Costin

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My thanks go to Michael Phipps of The Henry Moore Foundation for his interest in my work and for the additional details that he provided about Moore’s reading.

1In 2001 a mass grave from the First World War was found near Arras. In it were the remains of twenty men, all thought to be from the 10th battalion of the Lincolnshire regiment - one of the “pals” battalions. This grave is now referred to as the “Grimsby Chums.” These men had all come from the same area, had joined up together, lived in the trenches together and had died together going “over the top” on April 9, 1917, the first day of the battle of Arras.

2What is remarkable about this particular grave is that the dead bodies make a strong statement about tenderness. The men have been placed in the grave arm-in-arm, to show their unity. This careful positioning of the corpses indicates the sympathetic connection between the dead men. It also demonstrates the strong sense of compassion between these dead soldiers and their living comrades whose sensitive actions convey the transcendent power of such relationships. These dead bodies provide a graphic reminder of the importance of interdependent relationships; in death as in life, together and touching. Thus this grave is a potent example of a sense of touch.

3This emphasis on touch was one common response to the trauma of the First World War and it is seen in the work of many artists of that time including D.H. Lawrence and Henry Moore. However, there are other significant links between these two artists that are revealed by looking at the connections between Lady Chatterley’s Lover and some later sculptures by Moore. This suggests that these two artists move beyond the idea of touch as simply a reaction to the horrors of the war to present a sense of touch as a remedy for the even greater catastrophe that they perceived; the fragmentation of the modern world which instigated that war.

4Moore’s work is familiar to us. He only died in 1986, yet he was born in 1898 just thirteen years after Lawrence, so he is Lawrence’s contemporary. Moore also has a connection to Arras in that he was stationed there in August 1917 to learn about trench warfare before he took part in the battle for Cambrai just a few kilometres away. Moore was lucky to survive his first battle - the majority of his comrades did not. Nonetheless, he was gassed and sent home as a stretcher case; an experience that is recalled in some of his sculptures where the chest of the figure is absent. Indeed, it was Moore’s brief experience of trench warfare that had such a marked impact on many of the sculptures he produced, some of which communicate a powerful sense of touch.

5While other critics have noted links between these two artists, their work has tended to focus on the feminine. For example, in 1974, Yamakawa Kozo looked at primitive vitality and the importance of the feminine in Lawrence’s novels and concluded: “Moore was able to express through his sculpture the message that Lawrence was trying to convey." In 1990 Joyce Dallaportas examined these two artists’ positive and negative manifestations of the archetypical feminine. However, looking at the work of Lawrence and Moore from a perspective that is more inclusive of the masculine reveals significant connections between them. Perhaps most notable in their art produced in the wake of the First World War, there is a shared concern with expressing the importance of touch, which, in Moore’s case, is often emphasised by figures that seem to lack this vital attribute; they are out of touch, isolated.

6As both artists drew heavily on their life experiences as a resource for their art, it is worth briefly exploring how the lives of these two artists touched before going on to look at their work. Moore was born further north than Lawrence, in Yorkshire, but he was also the son of a coal miner who was distanced from his father and had an overly close relationship with his dominant mother who was a significant influence on his work. While Moore described his father as “a complete Victorian tyrant” (Moore 31), he also acknowledged that rubbing liniment into his mother’s rheumatic back was “one of his first specifically sculptural experiences,” even with all its “oedipal overtones” (Berthoud 26). Indeed, in a similar way to Lawrence, Moore recognised the strength of his attachment to his mother in his statement: “I suppose I’ve got a mother complex […] She was to me the absolute stability, the whole thing in life that one knew was there for one’s protection” (Berthoud 21).

7In many ways Moore’s childhood echoed that of Lawrence. As boys they both developed a keen interest in the natural world and enjoyed spending time on local farms and helping with the harvest. As was normal at that time, Moore was also brought up within strictly defined parameters of sexual identity: “In the mining area where I was brought up, you had to look tough and manly, which meant you had to have a girlfriend. If you didn’t, you were thought cissy […] If you got to about ten or eleven and didn’t have a girlfriend, you were looked upon as if there was something wrong with you” (Moore 34). Later, both artists’ resistance to this confinement in their work led to angry reactions. Lawrence’s battles with the censors are well-known but, in view of his later popularity, it is less appreciated that Moore’s early sculptures also provoked fierce hostility and calls for him to be sacked from his teaching position.

  • 1 For further discussion about Moore’s output of writing and the way he revised his work see Alan Wil (...)

8In a similar way to Lawrence, Moore was convinced about the power of words and initially planned to become a writer. He began by writing plays and essays and thought that writing poetry was “the biggest and most marvellous of human activities," but later realised that both poetry and sculpture could enable people “to express their feelings about life, about nature and about their response to the world” – and Moore chose sculpture (Moore 38). Nevertheless, writing continued to play an important role in his life. Moore acknowledged that the literature he had read - including that by Lawrence - had a greater impact on his life than painting or sculpture and stated: “I think that people with a gift for words have had the biggest influence of all our past […] the one thing that we’ve got that allows us to exchange ideas and help each other are words” (Moore 39). Seemingly demonstrating this firm belief, Moore was a prolific, yet careful, writer who took pains to shape his language to best convey his ideas in order to touch his reader.1

9Coincidentally, both artists also exhibited their work at the same gallery in London, but with rather different results. Dorothy Warren’s determination to promote the work of working class artists led to Moore’s first solo exhibition in 1928 at the Warren Gallery. Moore was very pleased at the outcome of this exhibition as he had some favourable reviews and made a reasonable amount of money, but what was more important to him was that his work had been bought by eminent artists such as Epstein, Augustus John and Henry Lamb. This was immediately followed by Lawrence’s exhibition of his paintings in 1929 and so the two artists may have subsequently been associated in people’s minds more than we imagine. Nevertheless, there was a sharp contrast in the reception of Lawrence’s work, which was seized by the police because it was considered obscene.

10However, of more importance are the striking similarities between Lawrence’s and Moore’s thinking. They both believed in a personal connection with their art and displayed considerable confidence in their work’s potential to change peoples’ perspective about the relationship between themselves and between them and the world they lived in. This was all part of their shared belief in the religious power of art. While neither man could be described as religious in an orthodox sense, they both had a strong, wider sense of religious belief which they saw as inherent to their art. Moore’s statements made in the 1960s make this clear:

I believe that art itself is akin to religion, art is, in fact, another expression of the belief that life is worth living – and that is what religion is basically about […] all good art is religious […] All art is religious in a sense that no artist would work unless he believed that there was something in life worth glorifying. This is what art is about. (Moore 129 - 130)

11Furthermore, in Moore’s remarks about this intimacy between art and religion we hear echoes of the views Lawrence expressed as early as 1913: “I often think one ought to be able to pray, before one works – and then leave it to the Lord […] One has to be so terribly religious, to be an artist” (1L 519). These were sentiments that Lawrence also expressed in his work: “The business of art is to reveal the relation between man and his circumambient universe at the living moment […] an artist can only create what he really religiously feels is truth, religious truth really felt” (Study of Thomas Hardy 171, Phoenix 562).

12For both artists Mexico provided a powerful draw and, in particular, the primitivism associated with that place fascinated them. Lawrence’s visit there was bound up with his desire to explore his ideas of blood-consciousness and he drew heavily on his experiences in Mexico for his novel, The Plumed Serpent. Although Moore was inspired by Lawrence’s novel, it was the primitive sculpture that could be found in Mexico which particularly attracted him. It would be many years before Moore visited Mexico, but he saw photographs of the Mayan figure of the rain spirit Chacmool and then - while in Paris in 1925 - he saw a plaster replica of this sculpture, which provided the initial inspiration for his reclining figures. Moore also visited the exhibitions of Mexican art at the British Museum and later acknowledged that “Pre-Columbian Mexican sculpture has been the most important single influence in my own sculpture” (Moore 70). However, while this shared interest in primitivism might suggest that these artists desired to return to the values of the past, this was not so. Unlike many others in the 1920s, Moore and Lawrence did not advocate a return to primitive ideas as a refuge from the horrific present, but saw those past ideas as the crucial key to a different and more positive future.

13Nevertheless, when thinking about a sense of touch, it was both artists’ exposure to another style of primitive art, that of the Etruscans, which had the most important impact on their work. Lawrence visited the Etruscan tombs at Cerveteri and the museum and the painted tombs at Tarquinia and recorded his experiences in Sketches of Etruscan Places. Of these, it was the grave paintings at Tarquinia that made the deepest impression on him because of the sense of touch that he detected between the Etruscans and between them and the world they lived in:

That again is one of the charms of the etruscan [sic] paintings: they really have the sense of touch; the people and the creatures are all really in touch. It is one of the rarest qualities, in life as well as in art. There is plenty of pawing and laying hold, but no real touch. In pictures especially, the people may be in contact, embracing or laying hands on one another. But there is no soft flow of touch […] Here, in this faded etruscan [sic] painting, there is a quiet flow of touch that unites the man and the woman on the couch, the timid boy behind, the dog that lifts his nose, even the very garlands that hang from the wall. (D.H. Lawrence and Italy 372)

14Following this trip there is an increased concern in Lawrence’s work with the importance of a sympathetic connection between people and between them and the world in which they lived. Furthermore, he now recognised that the ills of the modern world had been instigated by people being “cut off.” Lawrence’s remedy was to try and revitalise this sense of touch as is shown by the emphasis that he places on this in his last novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover. While Moore was inspired by his visits to the Etruscan exhibitions at the British Museum, as he freely acknowledged, Lawrence’s work was a “considerable” influence on his thinking. We know that Moore avidly read all of Lawrence’s novels and that he had a 1933 edition Sketches of Etruscan Places on his bookshelf together with a book about the trial of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Indeed, as we will see, looking at some of Moore’s sculptures suggests that it was Lawrence’s emphasis on the importance of touch in these texts that had a particular influence on Moore’s later works.

15The First World War was also a profound influence on both artists’ work. While their war experiences were very different, their art shows a similar trauma. Both were horrified by the war. But while Lawrence made his abhorrence of the war clear from the start, Moore did not express this opinion until some years later. In a letter written to a close friend c. 1920 Moore briefly denounces: “the great bloodshed and the pain, the insufferable agony and the depravity, the tears and the human devilishness of war” (Lewison 8). Moore’s resistance to talking about the war was seen as characteristic of men of his generation who did not discuss their feelings or emotions about this traumatic event. A revealing omission. These men were unable to touch on their memories of that time. Such was the horror of the war that denial of feeling became a standard response.

16This emotional isolation was compounded by societal constraints that equated emotion to weakness and the feminine to the extent that shell-shock was seen as a “feminine” disease. This encouraged an enforced blankness amongst the soldiers. Reminiscent of the tin masks that many thousands of war victims used to hide their facial deformities, men who had survived the unimaginably terrible conditions of trench warfare presented a false face to the world, concealing any emotion. Yet Moore’s art expressed what he could not articulate. Predominately, the faces of his figures lack expression. Remarkably, even his mother and child sculptures do not usually show any visual contact between the two figures. A recent commentator on Moore’s work, Jeremy Lewison, points to this blankness - or a lack of connection - as representing Moore’s response to the horror of the war. However, focussing on two groups of Moore’s sculptures, his later reclining figures and a family group that was commissioned by Harlow Town Council, reveals the progression of his thinking and the links to ideas that Lawrence voiced in Lady Chatterley’s Lover about a sense of touch.

17 Moore’s many sculptures of reclining figures are invariably female, showing the influence of his mother. Characteristically, in the early figures where they have a recognisable face, they have a vacant expression. Moore attributed this to his fascination with a Mayan figure of the rain god Chacmool. However Lewison, making a link to Lawrence’s work, points out that this lack of expression was also like “Clifford Chatterley or Oliver Mellors in Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover whose exposure to war left them unable to feel” (21). In later figures Moore increasingly emphasises this disconnection between the figure and the surrounding world - including the viewer - in the way he shapes the head. In some the head becomes little more than an abstract shape, perhaps representing the inaccessibility of the cognitive function beneath. In other sculptures the shape of the head echoes a helmet alluding both to the war and the need for isolation and protection from the outside world - the need to both hold in and to keep out, a theme that also ranges through Moore’s work in his internal/external forms.

18These ideas represented in Moore’s work might be bleak, yet they suggest a human response to an unacceptable horror; withdrawal and concealment of identity, the expressionless shape conveying emotional withdrawal. The figure isolated within its own world. Beyond the war induced blankness that Lewison suggests, these sculptures make a statement which – like Lawrence’s novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover – was all about the lack of a sympathetic connection in the modern world. Moore’s sculpture and Lawrence’s novel depict the plight of people who are disconnected. They have retreated into a shell-like isolation, surviving by creating an impenetrable barrier between themselves and the outside world. They have no sense of touch.

19Lawrence emphasises this lack of touch in the modern world from the start in Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We are told that Clifford, “Having suffered so much, the capacity for suffering had to some extent left him […] in his face one saw the watchful look, the slight vacancy too […] he had been so much hurt, something inside him had perished, some of his feelings were gone” (6). The reader – like Lewison - might assume that Clifford’s blankness is simply the result of his horrific war experience and being “shipped home smashed” (12). But Lawrence makes it clear that whilst the war contributed to this lack of connection, it was not the root of the problem. As terrible as the war was, there was an even greater horror, the inherent disconnection between people and between them and the world they lived in. Everything was out of touch. In describing Clifford’s father, Sir Geoffrey, Lawrence is unable to resist voicing a personal opinion to emphasise this isolation: “So cut off was he, so divorced from the England that was really England, so utterly incapable, that he even thought well of Horatio Bottomley” (11). Lawrence goes on to show how Clifford had been brought up devoid of a natural sympathetic connection with other people and the world in which he lived: “The Chatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby […] They were cut off from the industrial Midlands in which they passed their lives. And they were cut off from their own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut-up nature of Sir Geoffrey” (12). Lawrence continues - repeatedly using the phrase “gulf impassable” - to emphasis the lack of contact between those who lived at Wragby Hall and those who lived in Tevershall village. Lawrence stresses there was “no communication” between them and that there was an ethos of “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” that he acknowledges was “A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity” (14). Thus Lawrence demonstrates how human life was being impoverished by the lack of a sense of touch in modern life and that this was not just something instigated by the war.

20His description of Connie’s relationship with Clifford makes the same point. Connie wants to be in touch with her injured husband. We are told that, at first, Connie “stuck to him passionately” (15). Yet she finds this increasingly difficult as she becomes aware that the life he offers her is fundamentally wrong. Connie recognises that Clifford is not just physically broken by the war, he is also psychologically damaged by modern society. Connie reflects that Clifford “was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anything or anybody […] nothing really touched him. Connie felt that she herself didn’t really, not really touch him. She had never finally got at him: perhaps there was nothing to get at, ultimately: just a negation of human contact” (16). Connie goes on to observe that “bodily they were non-existent to one another […] They were so intimate, and utterly out of touch” (17). Later Connie’s recognition of the lack of even a physical connection with Clifford again points to a more fundamental disconnection: “There was nothing between them. She never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her” (112).

21However, rather like Kate in The Plumed Serpent, Connie is aware that she needs to change her life and it is this awareness that offers some optimism for the future. Acknowledging that her life with Clifford was just “like the simulacrum of reality” Connie regards the wood as “her one refuge, her sanctuary” (18). But even so she accepts that “She never really touched the spirit of the wood itself […] she knew she was out of connection: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world” (20). This is the important difference between Connie and Clifford. Their problems are not so much about his physical disabilities and inability to father a child, but about the loss of a sympathetic connection between them and between them and the wider world. Connie knows that she has lost this sense of touch whereas Clifford never had it.

22Moore’s reclining figures express this detachment not only in the lack of facial expression but also in the body posture; they are lying on their backs, as if drawing away from the viewer; their passive state emphasising their lack of engagement. They are self- contained, detached. In later reclining figure sculptures from the 1930s onwards it would seem that Moore wanted to isolate his figures even more.

Reclining Figure 1938 (LH 192)

Reclining Figure 1938 (LH 192)

Reproduced by permission of The Henry Moore Foundation

23As can be seen from this sculpture, Moore’s later reclining figures are characteristically dehumanised by their lack of facial features. The shape of their bodies alludes to the war; the torso often being reminiscent of the injured bodies Moore saw in France. While a few resemble the bomb craters Moore saw on the battlefields, yet more are pierced with holes to suggest a physical assault on the body that renders it permanently damaged. These figures are also uncanny reminders of the victims of gas attacks, whose suffering isolates them from their comrades and their surroundings. The account of a nurse, Mary Britnieva, not only clarifies the links between the victims of gas attacks and Moore’s sculptures but also highlights how such injuries acted to isolate men who no longer had the comfort of being in touch with their comrades and those sent to help them. It is telling that she found nursing the victims of gas attacks more traumatic than watching men die:

They lay on their backs mainly, their upturned faces terribly swollen and livid – some almost blue – choking and coughing, their blood-shot eyes protruding, unable to utter a word, yet fully conscious, only their eyes and their occasional spasmodic feeble movements proclaiming the supreme agony that they were enduring […] We felt utterly helpless, there was no remedy, we were powerless. (Das 190-91)

24Roger Berthoud, whilst observing Moore’s characteristic dismissiveness about the war, also suggests a connection between Moore’s reclining figures and his war experience:

Arguably Moore’s response to suffering, both personally and in his later work, would have been less impressive had he not seen so much of it in the front line in France. It is tempting to see a link between the fallen bodies of his army comrades and the cadaverous, hole-pierced forms of his reclining figures from the mid-thirties onwards. (47)

25As is shown in the above sculpture, in some of his reclining figures Moore hollowed out the ribcages as if to emphasise the damage to the lungs caused by gas attacks. He also highlighted his identification with these sculptures in his comment: “When I carve into the chest, I feel as if I were carving into my own” (Lewison 46).

26John Singer Sargent’s painting, “Gassed,” which was commissioned by the Imperial War Museum to commemorate the casualties of the First World War, was inspired by the aftermath of a gas attack that he witnessed near Arras. This work provides a graphic impression of how a gas attack isolated its victims. In it a line of gassed men moves through a collage of other injured soldiers lying on the ground while another such line can be seen in the distance. It seems like a scene of unearthly pandemonium. It depicts the horror of the men, blinded and stumbling onwards. But, remarkably, this scene also shows the sense of touch between the men. The men’s bandaged eyes create a blindness that necessitates and develops a sense of touch between them, and between them and their world. Those sitting on the ground are so in touch that it is difficult to see where one body starts or ends. Santanu Das’s description of the painting also draws attention to Sargent’s striking use of light, which connects this painting to literature of the time:

Ten blindfolded soldiers move haltingly in a single file across the twenty foot canvas […] each touching the man in front. What each soldier perceives is what the hand feels – rucksack, rifle or the rough uniform-clad body in front […] The sense of touch defines space and guides the rhythm of their movement, as if new eyes have opened at the tip of the fingers […] The trance-like figures seem to be moving in an imaginary space amidst the scattered light, as if replaying a scene from one of the traumatic war-dreams that haunt First World War writings. (1-2)

27In discussing this painting Das points out how this sense of touch developed amongst men who endured the horrific conditions of trench warfare. Men groping their way around in the dark in what was more cess pit than mud – deprived of most physical comforts and shadowed by death – developed a sympathetic connection between themselves as a human response to the horror they faced.

28Lawrence shows his awareness of the importance of this sense of touch between soldiers in Mellor’s comment that with his men in the trenches he “had to be in touch with them, physically, and not go back on it. I had to be bodily aware of them – and a bit tender to them – even if I put ‘em through hell." Mellors then goes on to expand these comments to voice Lawrence’s preoccupation at this time; that developing a sense of touch was a necessary remedy for the ills of modern life in England: “It’s touch we’re afraid of. We’re only half conscious, and half alive. We’ve got to come alive and aware. Especially the English have got to get in touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. It’s our crying need” (277).

29In his article “Lawrence and Touch” James C. Cowan points out how this idea of touch “as a medium for communicating empathy, compassion and tenderness is clearly presented […] in Lady Chatterley’s Lover” (133). He also notes a range of other works by Lawrence that express similar sentiments, including his poetry collection Pansies (1929), his short story “You Touched Me” in England, My England (1922) and his “pseudo-philosophy” Fantasia of the Unconscious (1923) which sets out a theory of touch. In 1916 Lawrence detected this sympathetic connection amongst some of the Cornish. A letter records: “Most of the people seem nice – really very nice. There is a rare […] quality of gentleness in some of them – a sort of natural, flowing gentleness which I love” (2L 495). However, Cowan rightly notes the significance of Lawrence’s visit to the painted tombs of Tarquinia in 1927 in revitalising his interest in the importance of touch.

30I suggest that it is this sense of touch – that permeates Lawrence’s later work – which made such a profound impression on Moore’s thinking. This is perhaps most clearly shown in Moore’s family groups, such as the one that was commissioned by Harlow Town Council and first unveiled in 1956.

Harlow Family Group 1954-55 (LH 364).

Harlow Family Group 1954-55 (LH 364).

Reproduced by permission of The Henry Moore Foundation.

31What is notable about this sculpture is that – in marked contrast to the isolation of the reclining figures – the figures in this group are all in touch. The male and female figures are sitting side by side on a bench with a child sitting on a blanket that drapes over the adults' knees. The male has his arm on the female’s shoulder; the female is holding the child whose arm touches the female. The blanket again connects all the figures but underneath the blanket the adjacent legs of the male and female are touching. The child sits not on the female’s lap – as might be expected – but between the adults, in touch with both. The child and the female also both clasp a package that obscures the child's legs, as if rooting it with the family.

32This sculpture would seem to show a development of the thinking that underpins Moore’s reclining figures. The blank expressions still indicate the suppression of emotion and isolation and in an era now dominated by the tensions of the Cold War, also point to uncertainty about the future. This hesitancy also marks the ending of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, where there is no happy resolution. The two lovers are parted and Mellors writes a long letter to Connie in the hope that his flow of words can make the sympathetic connection with her. But there is no convincing vision of an optimistic future. Although Mellors ends his letter with “a hopeful heart,” there is no disguising the ambiguity that pervades it. He tries to comfort Connie, assuring her that they “Fucked a flame into being.” But that very metaphor also conveys the fragility of that flame of hope that could be so easily snuffed out. Yet, throughout this novel, there is the suggestion that re-establishing a sympathetic connection between people and between them and their surroundings can act to revitalise their world; that a renewed emphasis on a sense of touch could help bring about the new world that Lawrence had sought for so long.

33We see this sense of touch amongst the figures in Moore’s family group sculpture. Their blank expressions still convey doubt but the figures are all in touch with one another. While this alludes to Lawrence’s description of the Etruscan tombs, its greater significance is that it indicates the influence of Lawrence’s ideas of a sense of touch on Moore’s thinking and work. This illustrates the connection between these artists and points to the enduring message that they tried to convey, and that we saw in the war grave of the “Grimsby Chums,” the universal need that we all have for touch and connection as we seek to make sense of a senseless world. As these artists suggest, a sense of touch with our fellow human beings and with the world around us is perhaps the best hope that any of us can have in an uncertain world.

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Berthoud, Roger. The Life of Henry Moore. London: Faber and Faber, 1987.

Cowen, James C. “Lawrence and Touch”. D.H. Lawrence Review 16: 2-3 (1985/6): 121-135.

Dallaportas, Joyce. D.H. Lawrence and Henry Moore: the positive and negative manifestations of the archetypical feminine. Ann Arbour: UMI, 1990.

Das, Santanu. Touch and Intimacy in First World War Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008.

Kozo, Yamakawa. Adventures in Thought: Novels of D.H. Lawrence. Tokyo: Kenkyusha, 1974.

Lawrence, D.H. Lady Chatterley’s Lover, A Propos of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover." Ed. Michael Squires. London: Penguin, 2009.

Lawrence and Italy. Eds. Simonetta de Filippis, Paul Eggert and Mara Kalnins. London: Penguin Classics, 2007.

The Letters of D.H. Lawrence Vol. 1 1901-13. Ed. James T. Boulton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979.

Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers of D.H. Lawrence. Ed. Edward D. McDonald. London: Heinemann, 1935.

The Letters of D.H. Lawrence Vol. II 1913-16. Eds. George J. Zytaruk and James T. Boulton. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981.

The Plumed Serpent. Ed. L.D. Clark. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987.

Study of Thomas Hardy and other essays. Ed. Bruce Steele. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985.

Lewison, Jeremy. Henry Moore. Los Angeles: Taschen, 2007.

Moore, Henry. Henry Moore: Writings and Conversations. Ed. Alan Wilkinson. Berkley Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002.

Wilkinson, Alan. Introduction. Henry Moore: Writings and Conversations. Berkley Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002.

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1 For further discussion about Moore’s output of writing and the way he revised his work see Alan Wilkinson’s introduction to Moore: Writings and Conversations 10-29.

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Table des illustrations

Titre Reclining Figure 1938 (LH 192)
Crédits Reproduced by permission of The Henry Moore Foundation
Fichier image/jpeg, 260k
Titre Harlow Family Group 1954-55 (LH 364).
Crédits Reproduced by permission of The Henry Moore Foundation.
Fichier image/jpeg, 449k
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Jane Costin, « A Sense of Touch: Henry Moore and D.H. Lawrence », Études Lawrenciennes [En ligne], 46 | 2015, mis en ligne le 22 octobre 2015, consulté le 25 mai 2017. URL : ; DOI : 10.4000/lawrence.243

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Jane Costin

Independent Scholar UK

Jane Costin is an independent scholar who has been a regular contributor to this journal. She has published several articles on Lawrence and is organising an international academic conference in September 2016 in St Ives Cornwall to mark the centenary of Lawrence moving to Zennor.

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