In Paris I witnessed another of his strange rages. We took a taxi to Sylvia Beach’s book-shop in a little street near the Odeon; he wanted to ask Miss Beach if she would publish Lady Chatterley; she had already dared Joyce’s Ulysses (a book Lawrence had not much respect for: too cerebral). The taxi-driver, a big bull-necked creature, couldn’t find the little street. As we cruised for the second time round the Odeon, Lawrence began to start and writhe. The powerful, unmoving back of the driver roused him to a yell. ‘The fat fool!’ he screeched—in English—‘A taxi-driver! Fool, fool, fool,’ he stamped and writhed. ‘Or else he’s doing it purposely, knowing we are foreigners.’ In the tiny enclosed space it was like having a shrill demented monkey beside me. After dipping into another street, again the cab cruised round the Odeon. To Lawrence’s yells and bangs on the glass screen the driver’s steady bull neck remained unperturbed. Ruddy beard stuck out, Lawrence’s pale face was lifted in agony. The immovable neck in front was bringing on a psychic crisis.
KeywordsSteam Beach Expense Sponge Verse
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