D.H. Lawrence and Ranamin: Visions of a New American Utopia


 By Mark Axelrod

The origins of utopian thought are as manifold as they are variegated. “The Republic”, “the Golden Age”, “the Ideal City”, “the Land of Cokagne”, “Paradise”, “the New Millennium” are all part of the great idealistic vision of “better things to come.” But in England and Europe in the latter part of the nineteenth century, “the socialist utopia was squarely linked to the evolutionary worldview with its progressiveness and faith in science” (Kumar 68) a faith that was not appreciated by a skeptical Lawrence. Meanwhile, America had become an image of a newly found Utopia, which it was, as Jean-François Revel wrote, “The only possible escape for mankind” (Kumar 70). So too did it seem for Lawrence. Superficially at least, America, for Lawrence, represented a continental genesis, a venue where, amidst the torment and destruction of a decaying Europe, he could create an idealized refuge for his Ranamin, his utopian society. And though Lawrence envisioned America as a possible cultural and artistic paradigm of enlightenment and freedom for Ranamin, his ambivalence toward America maintained itself before, during, and after his visits there. This idealistic ambivalence is implicit in Lawrence’s attitude of America as both an ou topos, or no-place, and eu topos, or Place-Where-All-is-Well, and is expressed in both his fiction and correspondence; but it is his own notion of America as a suitable place for his “colony” and his presumably “unconscious” fascist agenda that is critical.

The earliest images of America “the future” are seen while Lawrence was on an extended visit to Italy. It was during his stay in Gargnano, between September 1912 and April 1913 that Lawrence became interested in America as a new and promising continent. Among the essays he wrote there which were later compiled into Twilight in Italy, one in particular, “San Gaudenzio”, implied the author’s hope in America. Lawrence tells of Paolo who went to America and worked in California as a gold miner. His sons followed his example. Both ‘Il Duro’ and ‘John’ were familiar with the new world. John could not bear to go live in Italy again and wanted to go back to the States as soon as possible. Lawrence writes, “It was a great puzzle to me why he would go…. There was a strange, almost frightening destiny upon him, which seemed to take him away, always away from home, from the past, to the great, raw, America” (Arnold 15). Lawrence’s implication being that Italy, as well as the rest of Europe, was a past and America, though relatively unknown to him*, was a future even though he doesn’t mention America as a possible site for Ranamin until 1916.

With war raging on the mainland and English intervention imminent Lawrence saw a collapsing Europe ahead. And in the winter of 1914 he became preoccupied with the idea of an “earthly paradise”, a tranquil refuge. What resulted was the conceptualization of the Laurentian utopia known as “Ranamin”, a portmanteau derived from the opening Hebrew words of the Old Testament, Psalm XXXIII, which begins with Rananu meaning an “exclamation of joy”, and Tzadakim, meaning “a thing examined a found to be in order or right” (Cavitch 33). It has also been suggested that “the word ‘Ranamin’ may also be connected with the word Ra’annanim, meaning green, fresh or flourishing, an adjective (qualifying, again, sadikhim, the righteous, found in the fourteenth verse of Psalm 92” (Zytaruk Vol. II 252). From them, Lawrence coined the term “Ranamin” and with it the hope of founding a community of about twenty and sail away from this world of war and squalor and found a little colony where there shall be no money but a sort of communism as far as necessaries of life go, and some real decency. It is to be a colony built up on the real decency which is in each member of the Community—a community which is established upon the assumption of goodness in the members, instead of the assumption of […] badness” (Zytaruk Vol. II 259).

It was to be a colony (presumably independent of war, repression, and fear) unified in social harmony and creative expression. In short, it was to be “a community of those who had given up the world to go into a place apart, to live life as Lawrence believed it should be lived” (Fay 43). The key phrase here is “as Lawrence believed it should be lived” for implicit in this phrase is a preconceived notion of how one ought to live and, apparently, Lawrence had a clear idea of what that was supposed to be; however, of what his utopia consisted he was painfully vague though he, at one time, referred to it as “my Island” (Zytaruk Vol. II 266) which, consciously or not, set up the same kind of hierarchy that he was presumably predisposed to dismiss. Initially the island was to be England, a new community built “in the midst of this old one” (Zytaruk Vol. II 277). But by November, 1916, with the site of Ranamin as ephemeral as the idea itself, Lawrence writes to S.S. Koteliansky, “Though everybody says the war will go on forever, yet I think that this particular war will not last very much longer. While it lasts, we are more or less trapped. When it is over, we can clear out of this world, forever. I tell you my Ranamin, my Florida idea, was the true one. Only the people were wrong. But to go to Ranamin without the people is right, for me, and, ultimately, I hope, for you” (Zytaruk Vol. III 23).

Though he never reached the stage of actually writing out its charter, he was definite about one thing—he wanted to get away from the pressure of materialistic society (Preston 86). That notion of an escape from a material society to, presumably, a non-materialistic society was never detailed, but in an enlightening letter written to Lady Ottoline Morrell, Lawrence sketches not only what he envisions as the basis for Ranamin, but, at the same time, reveals his own social agenda which is predicated much more on an attitude of subjugation than on freedom, and on a kind of colonial sensibility that was certainly coterminous with imperial British thought. Lawrence writes:

 It is communism based, not on poverty, but riches, not on humility, but on pride, not on sacrifice, but upon complete fulfillment in the flesh of all strong desire, not on forfeiture but upon inheritance, not on heaven but on earth. We will be sons of God who walk here on earth, not bent on getting and having, because we know we inherit all things. We will be aristocrats, as wise as the serpent in dealing with the mob. For the mob shall not crush us nor starve us nor try us to death. We will deal cunningly with the mob, the greedy soul; we will gradually bring it to subjection. We will found an order, and we will be Princes, as the angels are. We must bring this about—at least set it into life, bring it forth new-born on the earth, watched over by our old cunning and guided by our ancient, mercenary-soldier habits (Letters, II, p. 273).

The question one must ask after reading a letter like this one is: Just what kind of colony does he have in mind? Is it meant to be an “art colony” with all the attendant possibilities of such and with a “manifest destiny” of becoming a nation? Or would he be content with merely maintaining the social and artistic equilibrium of a cultural space? The letter itself is replete in a number of crucial issues, not the least of which are the notions of “community”, of the “mob” and of the habits of “mercenary-soldier[s]” all of which have rather neo-fascist elements to them. The community as Lawrence envisioned Ranamin is very similar to the “natio” that Timothy Brennan discusses in his essay “The National Longing for Form” in which he writes,

As for ‘nation,’ it is both historically determined and general. As a term, it refers both to the modern nation-state and to something more ancient and nebulous—the ‘natio’—a local community, domicile, family, condition of belonging (Bhabha 45).

Given the thrust of Lawrence’s letter, this community, then, was not meant to be a community based upon a notion of spirituality that transcended economic values, but truly was to be a community that was fundamentally colonialist in terms of a kind of English cultural hegemony. In her The History of Utopian Thought J.O. Hertzler’s lists several characteristics of utopian thinkers: they have a divine discontent which leads to larger things; they are critics of their age; they are men of intellectual originality and constructive imagination; and they have a commendable faith (Hertzler 259-261). The difference, however, between the “utopians” about whom she discusses, such as Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen (all of whom saw themselves as social scientists) and Lawrence is that the former were all Utopian Socialists whose doctrines were, in some measure, extensions of the spirit fomented by the French Revolution while in others it was a form of rational reaction against the excesses of the great upheaval; however, Lawrence’s notions of Ranamin were, in fact, much different and within the context of his allegiances to his own self-proclaimed aristocratic ideology would, by virtue of that allegiance, undermine any attempt at invigorating a utopia in America. He dismisses the entire notion of “communism” as being impoverished, which implies that the kind of communism he advocates is not a Marxian social existence and activity which is based on the sharing of a community of goods, but, rather, a materialistic approach to a community’s resources.

It is ironic, of course, that Lawrence, who writes so poetically about an “order” (presumably only the beginnings of a future “new world order”) envisioned a utopia seemingly predicated on an institutionalized economic notion of being, an economic ideology with clear classist and cultural boundaries. It appears as if he envisioned his Ranamin inhabited with “Counts” and “Ladies” and wo/men of independent means (presumably with some artistic merit), but without Jews (he wrote on 21 February 1918 that he’d Zionise it [Palestine] into Ranamin…save for the Zionists) and the mob, only validates that somewhat ethnically rancid pose which was often a part of Lawrence’s fiction (witness the excoriating account of the “little Jewess” in The Virgin and the Gypsy). So, while Lawrence proclaimed his Ranamin as a cultural climate that would embrace and nurture an agenda of artistic, cultural and sexual freedom, he was, in fact, advocating a colonial movement that somehow adhered to and advanced a prevailing ideological posture not unlike the Fascist movement to come.

The similarities are noteworthy. Writes Lawrence of the Jews:

Why humanity has hated Jews, I have come to the conclusion, is that the Jews have always taken religion—since the great days, that is—and used it for their own personal and private gratification, as if it were a thing administered to their own importance and well-being and conceit. This is the slave trick of the Jews—they use the great religious consciousness as a trick of personal conceit. This is abominable (Moore 517).

and

I feel myself that the Jewish consciousness is now composed entirely of social images: there is no new-starting ‘reality’ left. Nothing springs alive and new from the blood. All is a chemical reaction, analysis and decomposition and re-precipitation of social images (Moore 842).

and

The worst of them [Jews] is that they are rather slave-like, and that almost inevitably, in action, they betray the truth they know, and fawn to the powers that be (Moore 520).

Religious and social zealots, obsequious and fawn-like are the Jews not to mention their “appetite for wealth” which Lawrence alludes to on numerous occasions in numerous letters.

One wonders what kind of “earthly paradise” Lawrence had in mind for Ranamin since his invective against the Jews and his disdain for the “common people” is clearly proto-Fascist. Mussolini said:

The greatest massacre of all times has a name: democracy. This word hides the voracity of Jewish capitalism which, through the butchery of men and the ruin of Christian civilization, wants to carry out the scientific exploitation of the world (Griffin 88).

Lawrence wrote to Lady Morrell:

When I think of art, and then of the British public—or the French public, or the Russian—then a sort of madness comes over me, really as if one were fastened within a mob, and in danger of being trampled to death. I hate the ‘public,’ the ‘people,’’ society,’ so much that a madness possesses me when I think of them. I hate democracy so much. It almost kills me. But then, I think that ‘aristocracy’ is just as pernicious, only it is much more dead. They are both evil. But there is nothing else, because everybody is either ‘the people’ or ‘the Capitalist (Moore 446).

One must question Lawrence’s motives (if not his naïveté) vis-à-vis his own discourse when it comes to this relationship with a communism of riches (material or otherwise) and the culture of imperialism. Though he claims to be an “anti-materialist” his discourse constantly proves otherwise. On what material resources this community was to exist is never mentioned let alone clarified though Lawrence’s apparent aversion (theoretically at least) to capital would tend to undermine the aspirations of his projected future utopia. One can only presume that the “mob”, the hoi polloi, would, in fact, either yield to Lawrence’s new order or be dominated by it and there would be a distinct separation between the Ranaminists and the “other” much like the difference between Gerald Crich and Gudrun Brangwen (when the former rapes the latter with impunity based purely on his economic and physical superiority) with all the attendant consequences therein including the allusion to the mercenary-soldier. After all, if one views the Native Americans (as Lawrence did) as “plain killers” (Said 288) how in touch could one be with the spirit of the place in which one wants to create a utopian village? For what Lawrence envisioned with his Ranamin was a kind of colonialism that would, presumably, expand and take over America. Lawrence says, “We must bring this about—at least set it into life, bring it forth…” so that if not he then others would fully implement the order and that order would use any means at its disposal to subject “the mob” to the order so transpired. “Neither imperialism nor colonialism is a simple act of accumulation and acquisition. Both are supported and perhaps even impelled by impressive ideological formations that include notions that certain territories and people require and beseech domination, as well as forms of knowledge affiliated with domination…” (Said 9). And it is clear in the Morrell letters that what Lawrence envisioned was indeed a kind of colony that would eventually spawn into one with all those Fascist virtues of social engineering (i.e. “we will found an order”) and choreographed violence (i.e. “guided by our ancient, mercenary-soldier habits”). We even see as early as February 1915 a curious kind of rhetoric for one so eager to discover and foment paradise when he writes, “There must be a revolution in the state. It shall begin by the nationalising of all industries and means of communication, and of the land—in one fell blow” (Zytaruk Vol. II 11). “The ‘individualities’ so highly valued in January were, by March explicitly made secondary: ‘we are no longer satisfied to be individual and lyrical—we are growing out of that stage’” (Zytaruk Vol. II 11).

And though “Lawrence had gradually developed, through the years and through his writings, his own image of the world and had traveled round the globe trying to find his ‘Ranamin’” (Preston 117), it wasn’t until the autumn of 1915 that Lawrence began to consider seriously the possibility of America, the bastion of capitalism, as a venue for his utopia. In a letter to Harriet Monroe, written in October 1915, Lawrence writes,

Probably I am coming to America. Probably in a month’s time I shall be in New York…I must see America: here the autumn of all life has set in, the fall; we are hardly more than ghosts in a haze, we who stand apart from the flux of death. I must see America. I think one can feel hope there. I think that there the life comes up from the roots, crude but vital. Here the whole tree of life is dying. It is like being dead: the underworld. I must see America. I believe it is beginning not ending (Cowan 3-4).

And though Lawrence was aware of the extrinsic mechanisms operating at the heart of the American capitalist system, he again and again identified with the potential for a new, intrinsic being in America. For the whole autumn of 1915, and for a time thereafter, the idea of America dominated his letters.

Though his interest in America as “a future” increased, Lawrence failed to consummate any definitive plans for leaving Europe. It is important to recognize that while in his October letter to Monroe, Lawrence stated that he would be in New York “probably in a month”, a month later, in a letter to Constance Garrett, he says nothing about leaving Europe though he was “certain” about coming to America. To Catherine Carswell, on November 7, 1916, over one year after he said he would be in America, Lawrence wrote, definitively ambivalently that:

I know now finally: (a) That I want to go away from England for ever and (b) That I want to ultimately go to a country of which I have hope, in which I feel the new unknown. In short, immediately or at length, to transfer all my life to America. Because there, I know, the skies are not so old, the air is newer, the earth is not tired. Don’t think I have any illusions about the people, the life. The people and the life are monstrous…But I also think that America, being so much the worse, falser, further gone than England is nearer to freedom (Arnold 26).

However, still, with all the affirmations of America as a “genesis of hope”, Lawrence did not arrange nor attempt to arrange any plans for visiting America. Lawrence’s image became an “abstract image intact”. In other words, secure in the fact of the existence of an abstract ideal, America, Lawrence became apprehensive about confronting the realization of the abstract ideal. As long as the image of America as Ranamin was not realized, then it could not be ruined: Lawrence felt both the image and the hope within that image to be protected. The logical progression then, for Lawrence, would have been a prevarication from the conceptualization in order to keep the abstract image intact. Moreover, the more negative images Lawrence could find in America, the longer he could justify his reasons for not coming to and therefore confronting the “reality” of the image and the possibility of the failure of his seemingly neo-colonial, proto-fascist agenda.

As the progression would have dictated, Lawrence, discontent with England and apprehensive of America, left for Sicily in November 1919 and he spent the next three years vacillating in his decision “to transfer all my life to America”, while he accumulated new reasons not to take the final steps and dismissed old reasons for hesitation. As David Cavitch points out in his D. H. Lawrence and The New World, “the extremes of anticipation and of aversion which mark his long-deliberated approach to the United States indicate how much of his inner life with its intense dialectics of negation and hope he had invested in the image of America” (Cavitch 103). It was also by 1919 that he writes “I still have some sort of hope of our Ranamin: the last hope” (Zytaruk Vol. III 316).

Though the contradictions and conflicts within Lawrence became intense and the need to find this illusory “spiritual fulfillment” in America did not lessen, he still maintained his romantic ambivalence. In response to a letter from Earl Brewster, an American friend who invited Lawrence to go to Ceylon, he replied, in January 1922:

I believe that the clamorous future is in the States. I do not want peace nor beauty nor even freedom from pain. I want to fight and to feel new gods in the flesh (Cavitch 131).

Two weeks later, however, Lawrence again wrote Brewster:

No, I believe you are right. Probably there, east, is the source: and America is the extreme periphery. Oh God, must one go to the extreme limit, then to come back?…We have made all arrangements to go to Taos, New Mexico. But we have booked no passage. Shall I come to Ceylon? Dio mio, I am so ridiculous, wavering between east and west. I believe I shall not go to America (Lawrence, ed. Trilling 188-89).

To justify his trip to Ceylon, Lawrence wrote Mabel Dodge and declared that America “is on the brink of a change, but the change isn’t quite ready yet, so I daren’t come” (Lawrence, ed. Trilling 189). And this posture, of course, runs counter to Lawrence’s perfervid fear of science and technology.

Though Ceylon proved disastrously “Un-Ranaminic” and Lawrence wrote very little while there, he still did not visit America; rather, he again wrote Mabel Dodge with the excuse:

I wish I could come to America without meeting the awful ‘cultured’ Americans with their limited self-righteous ideas and their mechanical love-motion and their bullying, detestable negative creed of liberty and democracy… Naturally I find myself diametrically opposed to every American (Arnold 110).

Ironically, Lawrence was not only “diametrically opposed to every American”, but he was even diametrically opposed to himself, to his “other” self, the self that sought America.

When he finally did arrive in America, Lawrence began to detect the seeming aggressive and pervasive social and economic mechanisms that operated there. On his first day in San Francisco, Lawrence felt oppressed by the plethora of mechanical comforts with which the Americans lived. His first few weeks, in New Mexico, were not much better. Lawrence saw in Mabel Dodge the typical American woman who bullied everyone and directed life by sheer force of will. Ironically, the images Lawrence had of the American woman (i.e. bully, enforcer of will) became his predominant images of America while he lived there. A poignant example of Lawrence’s ambivalent images of America as “enforcer of freedom” as well as “enforcer of will”, is found in two letters written only one week apart and which clearly defined his fear of the unknown and his refusal to accept it. On September 18, 1922, he writes, “America is more or less as I expected: shove or be shoved.” But still it has a bigness, a sense of spaces and a certain sense of rough freedom which I like” (Cowan 14). However, only a week later he wrote,

Everything in America goes by will. A great negative will seems to be turned against all spontaneous life- there seems to be no feeling at all-no genuine bowels of compassion and sympathy: all this gripped, iron, benevolent will, which in the end is diabolic…You can have the Land of the Free-as much as I know of it. In the spring I want to come back to Europe (Arnold 132).

So, in only three weeks, Lawrence had decided that America was incapable of “Ranaminization” and wanted to return to Europe: to give up the uncertainty of the utopia for the apparent security, if not stasis, of the disdainful past. The concept of America which Lawrence had begun ten years earlier and which he had been formulating for a decade had been shattered in less than a month. What seems apparent is that certain pre-arrival notions which Lawrence had of America, of a vast territory accessible to the implementation of a Ranamic order (if not a Fascist one), did not coincide with his post-arrival sensibilities and which conflicted with what he wanted to create in terms of his own new order. What lay at the fundamental core of this abandonment is the clear impossibility of Lawrence ever being able to implement such a colonialization precisely because of Lawrence’s inability to actualize the theoretical and “America’s” seeming recalcitrance at being subjugated.

Though discontent with America, Lawrence was indecisive about leaving. His decision to leave “in the spring”, instead of immediately subsequent to his September letter, implied a covert hope that either he or America would change, and the pre-arrival images of America as a new world refuge became lost in his prophetic conceptions of the American future: the rise of technocracy, the loss of individuality, and the intolerance of the bureaucracy for the people. Curiously, if not ironically, the same things he apparently deplored in America were the same things he advocated in the Morrell letters.

Before leaving for Mexico in the spring of 1923, Lawrence said,

No, I am not disappointed in America. I said I was coming to Europe this spring. But I don’t want to…. But I feel about the U. S. A as I vaguely felt a long time ago: that there is a vast unreal, intermediary thing intervening between the real thing which was Europe and the next real thing, which will probably be America, but which isn’t yet, at all. Seems to me a vast death-happening must come first. But probably it is here, in America, that the quick will keep alive and come through (Nehls 211).

It is conjecture as to whether Lawrence’s “death-happening” was meant to imply a military revolution or a cultural one. However, in either case, the optimum result of such a “revolution” would have been the concomitant death of the real American image and the birth of Lawrence’s ideal one which seemed to be contingent on a loosely fabricated social and economic structure that eschewed “democracy” in favor of a “fascist aristocracy.” The seeming dichotomy was clearly a parcel of Lawrence’s lifetime of ambivalence.

It would seem that after realizing the initial image of America was a false one, Lawrence would have either accepted the reality and remained or rejected the reality and left. However, his departure from and subsequent return to America were intrinsically linked to the man’s inner being: for of all the countries he had visited, he returned to America. In the essays Lawrence wrote upon arriving in America for the second time, he closely examined the cultural landscape and the idealistic signifier that it represented. Intensively explored, this America was no utopia. Pan in America, a short story written in 1924, clearly defines Lawrence’s failure-hope dichotomy. The story describes the voyage of Pan, the Greek god of forests and wild life, who came to America with the hope of finding a new “Allness.” However, the life in America eventually kills him. Ambivalently, Lawrence writes:

It is useless to glorify the savage. For he will kill Pan with his own hands, for the sake of a motor car. And a bored savage, for whom Pan is dead, is the stupefied image of all boredom.

However, Lawrence ends the story more optimistically with

whether we are a store clerk or a bus conductor, we can still choose between the living Pan, and the mechanical conquered universe of modern humanity. The machine has no windows. But even the most mechanized human being has only got his windows nailed up, or bricked in” (Lawrence 31).

However, his apparent concern for the working class, for the “store clerk” and “bus conductor” seems to have been lost somewhere between the coal mines of England and the deserts of Mabel Dodge.

As Cowan observed, “[a]t the root of Lawrence’s ambivalence lay his growing recognition that his sojourn in America had represented a sharply divided experience, an experience marked by his divergent responses, on the one hand, to the organicism of the American continent, and, on the other hand, to the mechanism of the materialistic society which was exploiting it” (Cowan 126). However, the causes for Lawrence’s failure to actualize his Ranamin is better explained by Hertzler’s comment:

Most minds are merely part of the interwoven spiritual fabric of their time and conditions; they are wrapped in a dense mesh of interests, customs, traditions and preconceived views and prejudices which bind them hard to the cheapest commonplace; their ideas are incorporated beyond recall into the mental whole which constitutes their society; they cannot escape from these bonds because they know not where they are bound (Hertzler 258).

Even Lawrence himself corroborates that notion when he protests, “Why do modern people invariably ignore the things that are actually present to them?…They certainly never live on the spot where they are. They inhabit abstract space, the desert void of politics, principles, right and wrong, and so forth” (Kumar 102). Why indeed.

Lawrence’s post-America images were no less ambivalent than those before he arrived there. In an essay titled, “Europe vs. America”, Lawrence explicitly analyzes the comparisons of the two continents, but implicitly states his own subjective feelings about the failure of his American ideal:

They are both of the same civilization, and all that. But the American grips himself at the very sources of his consciousness, in a grip of care: and then, to so much of the rest of his life is indifferent. Whereas, the European hasn’t got so much care in him, so he cares much more for life and living. Now back in Europe, I feel a real relief. The past is too big, and too intimate, for one generation of men to get a strangle on it. Europe is squeezing the life out of herself with her mental education and fixed ideas. But she hasn’t got her hands round her throat not half so far as America has hers: here the grip is already falling slack; and if the system collapses, it’ll only be another system collapsed, of which there have been many. But in America, where men grip themselves so much more intensely and suicidally—the women worse—the system has its hold on the very sources of consciousness, so God knows what would happen, if the system broke (Lawrence, ed. Inglis 134-136).

“Care”, of course, seems to be associated here with something social interest/justice, something Lawrence disdained and in which he constantly accused the Jews of having too much of.

Lawrence’s American ambivalence remained until his death. Mellors, in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, published two years before Lawrence’s death, prophetically echoes Lawrence’s own destiny when he states: “It was the insoluble. He could only think of going to America, to try a new air. He disbelieved in the dollar utterly. But perhaps, perhaps there was something else” (Arnold 16). Curious too that the same “dollar” is emblazoned with the Latin slogan a “new world order for the ages.” If, finally, Lawrence “despised” America, it was because he realized it to be indifferent to any of meretricious visions that were predicated on values that he found apparently untenable in the United States. Inevitably, Lawrence succumbed to what E.M Cioran writes in his History and Utopia “When we are exasperated by traditional values, we necessarily orient ourselves toward the ideology that denies them. And it is by its force of negation that utopia seduces, much more than by its positive formulas” (Cioran 95). Whatever literary history records of Lawrence in the abstract, his discourse remains a fertile field of fascist endeavors and does little to dissuade one from the fact.

Works Cited

Armin Arnold. D.H. Lawrence and America. London; The Linden Press, 1958.

Homi Bhabha, ed. Nation and Narration, London: Routledge, 1990.

David Cavitch. D.H. Lawrence and the New World, New York: Oxford University Press, 1959.

E.M. Cioran. History and Utopia, Trans. by Richard Howard, New York: Seaver Books: 1987.

James C. Cowan. D.H. Lawrence’s American Journey, Cleveland: Case Western Reserve University Press, 1970.

Eliot Fay. Lorenzo In Search of the Sun: D.H. Lawrence in Italy, Mexico,

and the American Southwest, London: Vision Press Limited, 1955.

Roger Griffin ed. Fascism, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.

Krishan Kumar. Utopia and Anti-Utopia in Modern Times, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987.

D.H. Lawrence. Twilight in Italy, New York: Jonathon Cape and Harrison Smith, 1929.

D.H. Lawrence. A Selection from Phoenix, ed. by A.A.H. Inglis, London: Hazell Watson and Viney, Ltd., 1971

Harry T. Moore, ed. D.H. Lawrence.The Collected Letters of D.H. Lawrence, New York: Viking, 1962.

Edward Nehls. D.H. Lawrence: A Composite Biography, Vol. 2, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1958.

Peter Preston & Peter Hoare, eds. D.H. Lawrence in the Modern World, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.

Edward W. Said. Culture and Imperialism. New York: Random House, 1994.

Diane Trilling, ed. D.H. Lawrence Selected Letters of D.H. Lawrence, New York: Farrar, Straus, 1958.

George J. Sytaruk & James T. Boulton eds. The Letters of D.H. Lawrence, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981.


About the author:

Dr. Mark Axelrod is Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Chapman University, Orange, California,and Director of John Fowles Center for Creative Writing. Among his popular published works are Constructing Dialogue: Screenwriting from Citizen Kane to Midnight in Paris, Aspects of the Screenplay: Techniques of Screenwriting, Character and Conflict: The Cornerstones of Screenwriting, I Read it at the Movies: The Follies and Foibles of Screen Adaptation, How Abbie Goldman Got Kissed in Venice, and Borges’ Travel, Hemingway’s Garage: Secret HistoriesHe can be reached via email at axelrod@chapman.eduTo know more about Mark Axelrod, visit his website www.axelrod.com.ar.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s