I have lost all desire to finish Lawrence’s The Plumed Serpent, and in fact, lost much of my desire to read his other novels. He seems intent on using his works as vehicles through which to explore political ideas, to fashion arguments for credos and philosophies.

I can forsee where the novel will go with a heavy, laden stare, oppressed by the mesmerizing repetition of the language, the ideas, the themes. I’m sick of this feverish state, of this pseudo hypnosis that Lawrence is engaging in, fleshy and sluggish and as dark as the very primitive quality he reviles and exhalts at the same time in Mexico.

Enough! I’ll cast it down, and turn my eyes to some other, worthier novel.