Lawrence’s elegiac style is marred by obnoxious repetitions, which act as “sort of” nervous tics, that “sort of” “quite” extend his characters’ ranting and raving to “quite” lengthy caricatures, with insinuating speech patterns and rambling social commentary. 

A lot of uncensored, “softly” lit bad behavior, “softly” heaving against cultural etiquette, injected with an overdose of double or quadruple standards. Ban-baiting, thrusting among the wildflowers and haystacks. An idealized erotic romp through aristocratic England, “sort of” sneering at the lower class, while depicting the upper in a baleful, execrable, nude manner, compiled with x-rated poetic still-lifes, cut through with a continual and obsessive admiration of human bodies, a painterly appreciation for disillusioned 40-year-olds who still “have it.” A book where you can see the nudity and the sex coming from a mile off, approaching at the edge of a scene like Godzilla emerging from the horizon.