On the evidence of the almost readable Sons and Lovers, David Herbert Lawrence is a truly dreadful writer. You could argue that his constant contradictions and endless revisions are an attempt to capture the complexity of the subconscious or you could argue that he did not know what he was on about and never re-read his work to make sure it made sense. The book is about a sensitive young man called Dav — errr, Paul Morel and the women who love him (or don’t: it’s quite hard to tell). In the following, “he” means Paul and “she” is Miriam:

“But he belonged to Miriam.”
“And Paul hated her”
“She knew he loved her. He really belonged to her.”
“His eyes … did not belong to her.”
“There had never been anything really between them… And she had known.”

Lawrence’s concern with his hero’s love life means that other things fade out of view. We learn early on and at some length that Paul’s father is an alcoholic but once that has been established, there is little more on the subject, leaving you unsure if he has dried out as he got older or if Lawrence just lost interest. And pity poor Paul’s brother, Arthur, also, like Da’s drinking, dealt with cursorily to say the least.

Lawrence’s attention to the detail of working class life (Paul is a miner’s son) is less than hawky of eye. He often forgets that the Morel family is supposed to be poor, while Paul’s personal life appears totally unhampered by the demands of work. It’s a far cry from The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.

For carelessness, though, it would be hard to beat the scene in which Clara and Paul pass by Clara’s husband on Woodborough road:

“At that instant, Dawes passed.” […]
“[Paul] glanced around; then he saw again the man’s form as it approached him.”

And they say this novel went through several drafts.