ellauri051.html on line 1436: 836 The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, 836 Pisteet, jotka pistävät kuin neuloja hänen jaloissaan ja niskassaan, murhaava laukaus ja luodit,
ellauri100.html on line 281: If my father ever earned as much as a median income, it would come as a surprise to me. Our houses, neighborhoods, and family friends were what is known as working-class. If there were twinges of envy for the rich and famous, they were balanced with admiration for their skills and accomplishments. These children of the Great Depression — my parents and their siblings and friends — betrayed no feelings of grievance toward those who had more of life’s possessions. They were rightly proud of what they had earned and accumulated, and did not feel entitled to more than that because of their “bad luck” or lack of “privilege”. These attitudes fit the Virginia boy's moral right edge like a glove.
xxx/ellauri085.html on line 106: If it is a surprise to learn that Lawrence originally conceived of Women in Love as a money-making pot-boiler, it comes as an endearing shock to read that James Joyce submitted some of his early work to the firm of Mills and Boon. There is no record of the reader’s report, beyond the fact that he rejected Dubliners as unsuitable material for the unique imprint of that publishing house. For his part, Lawrence had no doubt that the author of Ulysses was the real smutmonger of modern fiction. ‘My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is!’, he wrote to Aldous Huxley, ‘nothing but old fags and cabbage-stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest stewed in the juice of deliberate journalistic dirty-mindedness.’ To his wife Frieda he wrote, after reading Ulysses, that ‘the last part of it is the dirtiest, most indecent, obscene thing ever written’; and he later complained that Joyce had degraded the novel to the level of an instrument for measuring twinges in the toes of unremarkable men. Joyce’s reply to the charge that he was just another pornographer doing dirt on sex was to claim that at least he had never made the subject predictable or boring. He denounced Lady Chatterbox’s Lover — his title for Lawrence’s notorious novel — as a ‘lush’ production in ‘sloppy English’ and dismissed its ending as ‘a piece of propaganda in favour of something which, outside of DHL’s country at any rate, makes all the propaganda for itself’. It is a minor irony of literary history that both men were married at Kensington Register Office in London, although, unlike Lawrence, the Irishman allowed a decent interval of twenty-five years to elapse before the solemnisation of his nuptials.
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