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D. H. Lawrence’s Apocalyptic Anger

Barbara Langell Miliaras
p. 71-87

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1Tom Stoppard’s Travesties deals with a moment of apocryphal history, when three historical figures – James Joyce, Tristan Zara and Vladimir Lenin – come together in the Zurich public library in the apocalyptic third year of World War I. A fourth but lesser known historical witness, one Henry Carr, recalls his meeting with the “men of history,” through the misperceptions of memory, providing a prismatic but, of necessity, a fragmented, inaccurate and, perhaps, fictional insight into the lives of three revolutionary figures at the key moment when Western Imperialism was about to collapse, at a moment when large regiments of Tsarist soldiers are deserting the front to return to their abandoned farms and the Germans want to stir up as much trouble as possible in Russia.

2Amidst this crisis, the memory of this minor British consular figure is fixated upon his own anger over the director of an amateur production of Wilde’s brilliant satire on the absurd nature of British manners where the basis for true love is determined by the modishness of names, the whims of British debutantes in search of “happiness” in marriage and the absurdities of fashion through the eyes of one of the foremost British authors and social satirists of the late nineteenth century.

3I guess many of us – particularly those who have lived in America for the past forty years and witnessed the wars and rumors of wars that have made up the fabric of our lives during this period – can relate to the apocalyptic prognostications of both John of Patmos and Lawrence of Eastwood – though we may not share in their Schadenfreude. I say many of us, because I do not believe for a moment that the majority of human beings readily admit to the widespread evidence of suffering that is fundamental to the human condition and which appears to be the generating force behind the anger one confronts in the Book of the Apocalypse or in the novels and polemical writings of D. H. Lawrence. Certainly, the majority of humankind feel either compassion or complete indifference when they experience or witness similar tragedies. For this we have the evidence of the aftermath of many contemporary natural disasters – from the tsunami that swept through South Asia, to the aftermath of Katrina and the famine and plagues sweeping through Africa and Asia and, finally, the horror of the Haitian earthquake, along with other such tectonic disasters.

4We also have the utter denial we see in contemporary culture to the annihilative effect upon civilian or collateral populations in the continuous wars of imperialism that have plagued the planet for the past two and a half centuries. We have heard, of course, of the two world wars, as well as the Tzarist Pogroms, the Ottoman Empire’s genocides, Christian and the Jewish Holocausts and the post-colonial wars of the European settlement of Southeast Asia, but those seem far away and unrelated to the present annihilative wars of the thugs and zealots we have quite wittingly left behind and armed with our own weapons of mass destruction, policed or taught by our left-over soldiers of fortune. We’d rather watch reality TV or obsess about the lifestyles of celebrities. Have we exchanged the anger and the loathing of the Age of Decadence that led to World Wars I and II for global apathy?

5When the author of the Book of the Apocalypse shared his eschatological vision with the seven churches of Asia, he sat, by his own testimony, atop a hillside on the small Greek island of Patmos in the Southeastern Aegean, upon which, he states, he experienced the opening of the seven seals and witnessed the four horsemen of the Apocalypse:

And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.
[2] And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.
[3] And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.
[4] And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.
[5] And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.
[6] And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.
[7] And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.
[8] And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.
[9] And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held:
[10] And they cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on the earth?
[11] And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled.
[12] And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood;
[13] And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.
[14] And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and every mountain and island were moved out of their places.
[15] And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;
[16] And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:
[17] For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?

The Book of Revelation [6-17] King James Version

6At this point it is difficult to reckon who is angrier, God or Saint John.

7Slightly more than 1900 years later, at the Gotthard Pass in Switzerland – one of the four mountain passes located in Andermatt – a famous but small ski resort in Switzerland in the Uri Canton that leads on to Italy, D. H.Lawrence projects an equally dark and foreboding view of the state of affairs in Western Europe and Central Europe as it teeters on the brink of its own self-destruction and awaits the Apocalyptic red horseman, the personification of war and power, arise in what had been, Lawrence suggests, an Edenic age of peace and fulfillment.

8As he pauses on his way back from Germany to Milan, he witnesses and comments on the departure of Italian male workers forced into exile as they await passage out of Andermatt for points north and west – many of them, ultimately, to the New World – because Northern and Western Europe will have none of them. The great migration which began in the nineteenth century and continues even today was ongoing and relentless.

9This mass exodus, is generated, in part, Lawrence avers – earlier in his travelogue, because of the cupidity of women whose lust for material things and individual distinction has resulted in their men’s departure from the Edenic agrarian countryside of Italy to the exploitative shores of the United States of America or Canada. He describes it in tones that are akin to those of the “beloved disciple,” as he contemplates the ruin that lies even in this remote region of the western world. He does not attribute it, particularly, to a political cause; although it is most certainly can and should be attributed to that. But that is not really surprising. In spite of his fictional focus on both Leslie Tempest and George Sexton as representatives of government in The White Peacock, Lawrence does not display much grasp of the nature of the way in which politics work. That is the case, I maintain, even in his “political” or “leadership” novels of the early 1920s. Instead, he invests his descriptions of the victims of industrialism, with a kind of mythic or biblical stature, which he goes on to use to express his own, seething rage at the world of the present. He becomes the Teutonic Thor, the outraged Titan, the angry prophet. He has removed himself from the midst of that suffering by positioning himself above it – much as John of Patmos positions himself above the teleological consequences of his anger at the Roman imperial suppression and the expulsion of the Jews from Jerusalem as he experiences his dream vision. Lawrence, in Twilight in Italy, is more focused and aware of the roots of the contemporary evil he bears witness to:

It is the hideous rawness of the world of men, the horrible, desolating harshness of the advance of the industrial world upon the world of nature that is so painful. It looks as though the industrial spread of mankind were a sort of dry disintegration, advancing and advancing, a process of dry disintegration. If only we could learn to take thought for the whole world instead of for merely tiny bits of it.

I went through the little, hideous, crude factory-settlement in the high valley, where the eternal snows gleamed, past the enormous advertisements for chocolate and hotels, up the last steep slope of the pass to where the tunnel begins. Goeschenen, the village at the mouth of the tunnel, is all railway sidings and haphazard villas for tourists, post cards, and touts and weedy carriages; disorder and sterile chaos, high up. How should any one stay there!

[…] I climbed slowly, between the great cleft in the rock where are the big iron gates, through which the road winds, winds half-way down the narrow gulley of solid, living rock, the very throat of the path, where hangs a tablet in memory of many Russians killed.

Twilight in Italy, “The Return”

10While Lawrence’s tone in his early novels foreshadows, in part, his growing sense of apocalypse and the irrevocable course of history as it hastens to its appalling end, the mood, in the early novels: The White Peacock, The Trespasser, even Sons and Lovers, seems more elegiac than angry. Of course, the narrators in each case are angered by the eviction of the principals from their agrarian isolation. Of course, the first victims of “modern woman, the modern ‘idols of perversity’ or ‘whores of Babylon,”’ are the males, rendered useless by the advent of machinery that makes their manual labor redundant. Indeed, often when I am rereading Lawrence I think of Simon Beaufoy’s 1997 The Full Monty, which deals with the redundancy of male manual labor in a world where the skilled industrial jobs have been outsourced to cheaper job markets and the trade or entrepreneurial and supervisory jobs to women whose labor has then and now always been cheaper.

11Already, in the late nineteenth and twentieth century, this exportation of work by industry and capitalism became a motivating factor in the imperialist rivalry between the various Western powers that led, ultimately, to World War I. The migration was not ever merely European. Indeed, it was as much Asian as it was African and the indentured “Coolie Labor,” was subjected to as much indignities wherever they settled as were the immigrants from Southern and Eastern Europe. As much, even as most victims of the African slave trade, declared illegal in the UK by the 1807 Act of Parliament governing the same. The English yeomanry, whom Lawrence romanticizes in his early novels also suffers in that they too go into forced migration – either to the cities, where there are jobs only in the factories or in service, or to the English-speaking outposts of Empire – Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa or elsewhere. Many still migrated to the United States, as well as Central and South America.

12As the subjective observer Lawrence successfully encapsulates the anger and loathing that attends upon such migration. While the mines continue to cannibalize the adult male population, farming, the arts and the academy provide avenues only to the chosen and the few. The rest become the victims of the industrial power that enslaves them.

13Initially, however, Lawrence uses this helpless, male anger, this barely conscious rage to examine the war between the sexes that arises from modern woman’s sense of increased power and her desire to prevail over or to control her men: Walter Morel, Baxter Dawes, George Saxton are virtually forced into exile or dependency with varying consequences by the onslaught and dominion of industry and capitalism over their previous meaningful occupations of pit boss, smith and dairy farmer. They are no match for either industry or the machine. The camaraderie they once enjoyed from their trades is gone. Their women-folk, both wives and daughters, find them wanting. They are not educated. They lack consciousness. They exist in the moment. They cannot hold meaningful conversations. The women know they can do better than them – indeed, Mrs. Beardsall has already driven her husband, Frank Beardsall, into exile owing to his “wicked ways,” where, rootless, he becomes an alcoholic – foreshadowing the similar paths to destruction of George Saxton, Walter Morel and Baxter Dawes. They become victims of femmes fatales or valkyries posing as wives and daughters, who are consumed with materialistic desire and lust for power. But none of these novels in which these ordinary men become the victims of modern woman’s ire and dissatisfaction with her traditional role can be said to be apocalyptic in tone or in thematic significance – the Whore of Babylon has yet to appear. For her we have to wait for Women in Love where she is personified in the character of Gudrun and, on a less significant level, by Minette or Pussum as well as in the character of Josephine Ford, the annihilator of Aaron Sisson, who drives him into exile to industrialized Italy. These women madden the men who first attempt to subdue them. They destroy through their allure and the helpless anger they then provoke. In Gerald Crich, they achieve the destruction of the God of the Machine himself.

14In the “leadership novels” in the world of fascist and pre-national socialism, that Aaron Sisson migrates to, in the hinterlands, at any rate, the power of such women disappears. They are never to appear again. Kate Leslie submits to the religious will and political superiority of both Don Ramon and Cipriano. Connie Chatterley has taken leave of the world of political or social significance to dwell in Edenic bliss with her lover Oliver Mellors, abdicating completely the world of her stunted and impotent spouse, Clifford Chatterley. But Mellors is no less angry than his forebears. He hates the world and for him to love her, Connie must submit. She must exist in the wilderness with him. That, Lawrence suggests is the answer. There can never be equality in his world; the woman must always submit.

15The world of all these novels and their failed relationships, however, arises from Lawrence’s first exile from the oppressive, industrial scene of his youth – in his Bavarian and Italian sojourns.

16A little more than 100 years after the facts of this period in human history, this output of eschatological literature which we still study as if it were gospel, while denying the effects of the true apocalypse going on all around us, what has all this anger, preaching and “rapture” led to in terms of historical change? Certainly, the works of Voltaire, Locke, Hume and Rousseau led to something tangible. Certainly, the works of Charles Dickens, Emerson, Thoreau and Martin Luther King, did the same. But what of the work of Lawrence, Eliot, Pound and other elitists? What were they able to achieve in their derision of the cold, hard facts of the tyranny of the industrialists and entrepreneurs who had the ability to lead docile and powerless populations into fighting limitless wars? Or to paraphrase Edwin Starr who gave us “War what is it good for, Good God, Uh huh, Absolutely Nothin.” One might say, instead, about Johannine or Lawrencian anger, “Wrath, good God, y’all, what is it good for?” with the same response – Absolutely Nothin.” Have we found our paradise lost or do we hasten its end?

17The human race, despite its easy and superficial acceptance of some of the more irrational aspects of religion, on the whole, is not a visionary lot. The great religious leaders, from Buddha to the Dalai Lama and including Lao Tze, Moses, Jesus and Mohammed were less visionaries than teachers of ways to live one’s life. They were seekers of truth and revealers of truth to all who would listen. Love, Compassion and Redemption – at least for Buddha and Jesus – were their foci, not vengeance – although Jesus did predict the destruction of the Temple. The prophets, priests and prognosticators who emerged in their wake spoke out in voices that thundered in rage and uncontained vilification. They differ radically from their teachers. They do not preach to the masses – to all potential believers – the salvation or comfort they offer but to an elite, to the believers who wait impatiently for a promised end where they will live eternally in a heaven from which they will witness the pain and suffering inflicted upon the damned. It is, unfortunately, to those who vilify and berate, that the people often give the most credence – enabling such prophecies to prevail – when it might be better to laugh them out of existence as Wilde did; as Shaw did, as Stoppard does.

18Such angry prophets traditionally appear during periods of social and political unrest, disease, famine and plague. What else can we call Hitler than a maddened, angry prophet? There is, always, for them, the remembrance of Eden, a pre-Lapsarian, antediluvian world where man dwelled and spoke with God, and for whom the cognizance of this lost Paradise lays the foundation of the anger of the prophets and priests who still remember the distant past.

19John’s voice, then, is not in the early Christian tradition, where the followers of Jesus sought to reconcile the sayings and teachings of Jesus with the historic present. It descends, instead, from the tradition of Jeremiah, Amos and the other angry prophets of the Babylonian Captivity – it is an Old Testament, prophetic voice of a world lost owing to the failure of humans to live by the laws imposed by the Mosaic Tradition. But more than that Johannine anger is political anger. It is prophecy fueled by rage. Paradise was lost, such voices maintain, because humanity deserved it, because they heeded the voices and gods of the demons who led them astray. And their anger arises from this same conviction. The times are woeful. Only complete destruction can compensate a wrathful God when his creation goes wrong.

20Of course, the narrators in each case are saddened by the eviction of the principals from their agrarian isolation. Of course, the first victims of “the modern woman” are the males, rendered useless by the advent of machinery that makes their manual labor redundant. How rational is this perception? About as rational as Hitler’s Kinder, Kirche, kuchen.

21I do not intend, in this brief paper, to examine the Johannine elements in Lawrence’s oeuvre. Nor do I really wish to spend much time on Lawrence as self-defined prophet of the early twentieth century apocalypse – he has done that himself and when all is said and done, what could he do to prevent the onslaught of our contemporary iron Age? Better, by far, from his own perspective to be its herald. Could anyone slow its progress? Could anyone awaken the middle classes, who accepted the fruits of empire when they were readily available with such alacrity, that the old days of Empire and power were doomed? D. H. Lawrence tried, but he really didn’t speak to the people, he spoke to the upper classes and they rejected him out of hand – except for his sexual philosophy. The trouble is, secretly, he admired the Fascists, the Nihilists and, perhaps, the Nazis; although Frieda argued against this point vehemently after Lawrence’s death – as the late Emile Delavanay so often pointed out. His works, however, speak forthemselves.

22Instead, this paper will focus on the manifestations of anger as an emotive device throughout Lawrence’s work, most particularly in Twilight in Italy Women in Love and Aaron’s Rod , and analyze that anger within the political framework of Europe during World War I and the immediate post-war years. It will focus on D. H. Lawrence as a literary apostle of the Schadenfreude that swept through Europe during this heyday with its resultant proliferation of political repression of the scapegoats or revolutionary movements that threatened those in power – political works in progress – if you will, as proposed antidotes to the aftermath of the “War to End all Wars.”

23In D. H. Lawrence’s fict Women in Love, ional world, the narrative voice is seldom elegiac, once one leaves the worlds of Strelley Mill and Willey Water behind. Instead, as early as his Italian period, anger prevails. Everyone is angry. George Sexton is angry with Lettie Beardsall and Leslie Tempest. Gertrude Morel is angry with Arthur Morel and Miriam Leivers. Lydia Lensky Brangwen is angry with the world. Ursula is angry with Skrebensky and even with Rupert Birkin. At times she is angry with all men. Gudrun and Loerke despise the world of industry and ally to destroy it.

24What is the root cause of this anger? Certainly its roots lie in the over five hundred year exploitation and expulsion from the 12th century Edenic world that William Morris and other millenialists proposed had existed in the High Middle Ages and which they tried to recreate in a world where the hierarchs of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and their disdain and indifference to the pain and suffering of their own kind prevailed.

25How did they hope to stem the tide? Well the times cried for reform and the Educational Reform Acts, like the reform of the Corn Laws and the reform of Parliament were the mid-to-late nineteenth century’s answers to the utter poverty and exploitation of the down and out that we see in the novels of Charles Dickens and the poetry and short fiction of Rudyard Kipling. But the answers called forth the very kind of anger that we see dominating the world of D. H. Lawrence. The Educational Reform Acts, for the first time turned to the education of the lower middle classes and provided some recourse for the young women for whom marriage – loveless and tedious though such marriage might be – prior to this reform was the only tenable profession beyond a world where prostitution or exploitation provided the only alternatives to a lifetime of servitude and a married woman was by law little more than both.

26Now, they were to be educated along with their brothers, for professions in domestic service and teaching. This liberation or expansion of extremely narrow avenues led to the fear of women and their sexuality that we see in late Victorian and early Edwardian and Georgian British novels, representing life only a cut above that which we witness in the equally grim worlds of the Russian and French novels of their day. Beyond the walls that surround such lives what else existed? Emigration to the Americas, South Asia or the Antipodes, where they, in turn, could exploit in their own right – nothing more.

27Who to blame? The perpetrators of the evil – the military and industrial or, more to the point, the entrepreneurial classes of the time? The ancestors of the idiocy of which we are still the legatees? To admit such blame would envision an enlightened public willing to forego their own empty dreams. Far better to blame the Eves and other serpents that lurked in the gardens than to forego the myth of white male supremacy. If there was soldiering to be done, if their was suppression to participate it, a willing army was at the ready and still is.

28But, to get back to Saint John. Gerald Crich is a strange culprit in Women in Love. No question, he is the second horseman of the Apocalypse – the embodiment of war and power. Of course, Rupert Birkin worships him. He wishes he was him. He has everything that Birkin has not. Money, power, life and death, decision-making over an army of workers. But he is flawed and everyone knows it. Gudrun more than most.

Whilst the two girls waited, Gerald Crich trotted up on a red Arab mare. He rode well and softly, pleased with the delicate quivering of the creature between his knees. And he was very picturesque, at least in Gudrun's eyes, sitting soft and close on the slender red mare, whose long tail flowed on the air. […]
The locomotive chuffed slowly between the banks, hidden. The mare did not like it. She began to wince away, as if hurt by the unknown noise. But Gerald pulled her back and held her head to the gate. The sharp blasts of the chuffing engine broke with more and more force on her. The repeated sharp blows of unknown, terrifying noise struck through her till she was rocking with terror. She recoiled like a spring let go. But a glistening, half-smiling look came into Gerald's face. He brought her back again, inevitably.
The noise was released, the little locomotive with her clanking steel connecting-rod emerged on the highroad, clanking sharply. The mare rebounded like a drop of water from hot iron. Ursula and Gudrun pressed back into the hedge, in fear. But Gerald was heavy on the mare, and forced her back. It seemed as if he sank into her magnetically, and could thrust her back against herself.
“The fool!” cried Ursula loudly. “Why doesn't he ride away till it's gone by?”

(Women in Love, Chapter 10)

29In this encounter Gerald’s subliminal anger and his desire to control all in his milieu takes the form of momentary, but we sense, quotidian cruelty to his horse – the red stallion so reminiscent of the second horse of the Apocalypse. Witnesses to his cruelty are both Ursula and Gudrun. Ursula is openly hostile and insatiably angry, but Gudrun is cold and annihilating in her response to him. Ultimately she will destroy him without compunction, but for the moment, she is thrilled by him; she wants to possess him. That is made absolutely clear in their later encounter on Willey Water: Gudrun, then, is the first (and perhaps) final full apparition of modern woman as Johannine Whore of Babylon. Ultimately, she destroys Gerald with the help of Loerke, her Jewish, homosexual “friend,” with whom she plays apocalyptic games with Gerald as their prey. But Gudrun herself is prefigured in Maria Fiori of Twilight in Italy where Lawrence’s anger at woman is articulated woman’s anger at the cosmos in wich she finds herself trapped. Both in stand out graphically against the Edenic gardens of San Gaudenzio where Lawrence has sought refuge and residence.

Maria wanted the future, the endless possibility of life on earth. She wanted her sons to be freer, to achieve a new plane of living. The peasant's life was a slave's life, she said, railing against the poverty and the drudgery. And it was quite true, Paolo and Giovanni worked twelve and fourteen hours a day at heavy laborious work that would have broken an Englishman. And there was nothing at the end of it. Yet Paolo was even happy so. This was the truth to him.

It was the mother who wanted things different. It was she who railed and railed against the miserable life of the peasants. When we were going to throw to the fowls a dry broken penny roll of white bread, Maria said, with anger and shame and resentment in her voice:“'Give it to Marco, he will eat it. It isn't too dry for him.”

White bread was a treat for them even now, when everybody eats bread. And Maria Fiori hated it, that bread should be a treat to her children, when it was the meanest food of all the rest of the world. She was in opposition to this order. She did not want her sons to be peasants, fixed and static as posts driven in the earth. She wanted them to be in the great flux of life in the midst of all possibilities. So she at length sent Paolo to America to the gold-mines. Meanwhile, she covered the wall of her parlour with picture postcards, to bring the outer world of cities and industries into her house.

(Twilight in Italy “San Gaudenzio”)

30Recent apocalyptic criticism has stressed the fact that the Book of Revelation is written from an urban perspective where John of Patmos stands out in anger against the Roman Imperialist oppression that has resulted in the Destruction of the Temple and the diaspora of the Jews from the Holy Land. They suggest that John was a victim and exile of this destruction and involuntary exile that began the Second Diaspora of the Jewish People and that the Book of Revelation is his response to the horror and injustice of the Roman Empire, written to assuage the anger and despair of the exiled Jews and Christians.

31If we look at Lawrence’s cosmic anger as he expresses it throughout his novels and polemical writings, it too is the anger of an exile from Paradise who has found little relief or succor in other people’s Edens. For himself, and for what he wants all others to believe within his circle is that he is The Christ reborn – the living Phoenix, the embodiment of immortality and, at the same time, the angry Christ who purges the temple. With the loving and forgiving Christ, Lawrence wants nothing to do. We can call him Jeremiah, we can call him Amos, and we can call him Daniel or Elijah. What we can’t call him is the living, loving Christ – the Christ of the Covenant, the God of Love. Lawrence is the voice of Despair more than the living testimony to a therapeutic philosophy of love and sex. Like Aaron Sisson, who abandons the life one would associate with the working class – union organizer, husband of Charlotte, father to Millicent and Marjorie – for the life of a Bohemian musician, Lawrence goes into self-exile following Sisson’s road map. He prevents himself from a true emotional attachment to all but Frieda never bothering to disguise his sense of rancor at her in their post World War I pilgrimage. It is this angry Lawrence we have neglected.

32It is this angry Lawrence we fail to consider in our measurement of him. And as we stand on the brink of yet another apocalypse and break down of society, we have to ask ourselves: What have we really learned from him?

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Barbara Langell Miliaras, « D. H. Lawrence’s Apocalyptic Anger », Études Lawrenciennes, 43 | 2012, 71-87.

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Barbara Langell Miliaras, « D. H. Lawrence’s Apocalyptic Anger », Études Lawrenciennes [En ligne], 43 | 2012, mis en ligne le 19 décembre 2013, consulté le 29 mai 2017. URL : http://lawrence.revues.org/87 ; DOI : 10.4000/lawrence.87

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Barbara Langell Miliaras

Barbara Langell Miliaras, Professor Emerita, University of Massachusetts Lowell, received her Ph.D. from Tufts University and has published extensively in her academic discipline. Having taken early retirement in 2004, she now pursues her interests in writing fiction, poetry and the production of documentary films.

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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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