Through the Eyes
of...
D.H. Lawrence
Sea and Sardinia
COMES over one an absolute necessity to
move. And what is more, to move in some particular
direction. A double necessity then: to get on the
move, and to know whither.
[and this from the chapter "To Sorgono"]
...We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single peak —no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small part of the trunk.
It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered deep with grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, snow-heaved shoulder.
How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants...
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D.H. Lawrence
Sea and Sardinia
In spite of the controversy that for many years surrounded some of the work of English author, David Herbert Richards Lawrence (1885 – 1930), his novels, plays, poetry and critical essays are now valued as significant contributions to English literature in the 20th century. He is certainly viewed as one of the best travel writers, which is my concern here. Lawrence published Sea and Sardinia in 1921 (Thomas Seltzer, New York). It is an account of a voyage from Sicily to and through parts of the island of Sardinia. The book contains the following chapters: I. As far as Palermo; II. The Sea; III. Cagliari; IV. Mandas; V. To Sorgono; VI. To Nuoro; VII. to Terranova and the Steamer; VIII. Back. If you just want to read about Sardinia, you might jump in anywhere and start reading, but if you want a taste of Lawrence's style to whet your appetite, you might as well start at the beginning. Below are two short excerpts: the first, indeed, is the very beginning of the book and takes place before the voyage; it is concerned with Sicily and specifically, Mt. Etna; the second is from the chapter "To Sorgono." Sea and Sardinia contains a map drawn by Lawrence and eight color illustrations by Jan Juta (1895 - 1990), one of which is reproduced below. It is the illustration at the beginning of the chapter, "To Sorgono."
COMES over one an absolute necessity to
move. And what is more, to move in some particular
direction. A double necessity then: to get on the
move, and to know whither. Why can't one sit
still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny
Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a
fire-opal moved in the light; Italy and the
panorama of Christmas clouds, night with the
dog-star laying a long, luminous gleam across the
sea, as if baying at us, Orion marching above; how
the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at one! he
is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous and
fierce! —and then oh regal
evening star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark
precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked
witch, resting her thick white snow under heaven,
and slowly, slowly rolling her orange-coloured
smoke. They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the
Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up
in a long, magical, flexible line from the sea's
edge to her blunt cone, and does not seem tall.
She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one
knows her better, oh awe and wizardry! Remote
under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with us.
The painters try to paint her, and the
photographers to photograph her, in vain. Because why?
Because the near ridges, with their olives and
white houses, these are with us. Because the
river-bed, and Naxos under the lemon groves, Greek
Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited lemon
groves, Etna's skirts and skirt-bottoms, these
still are our world, our own world. Even the high
villages among the oaks, on Etna. But Etna
herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she
is beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low,
white, witch-like under heaven, slowly rolling her
orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of
rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth,
into the ether, into the low empyrean. And there,
in that remote region, Etna is alone. If you would
see her, you must slowly take off your eyes from
the world and go a naked seer to the strange
chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of heaven! The
Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things.
Thank goodness one still knows enough about them
to find one's kinship at last. There are so many
photographs, there are so infinitely many
water-colour drawings and oil paintings which
purport to render Etna. But pedestal of heaven!
You must cross the invisible border. Between the
foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot of
winds in lower heaven, there is a dividing line.
You must change your state of mind. A
metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see
and behold Etna and the foreground both at once.
Never. One or the other. Foreground and a
transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven.
Why, then, must
one go? Why not stay? Ah, what a mistress, this
Etna! with her strange winds prowling round her
like Circe's panthers, some black, some white.
With her strange, remote communications and her
terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad.
Such terrible vibrations of wicked and beautiful
electricity she throws about her, like a deadly
net! Nay, sometimes, verily, one can feel a new
current of her demon magnetism seize one's living
tissue and change the peaceful life of one's
active cells. She makes a storm in the living
plasm and a new adjustment. And sometimes it is
like a madness.
This timeless
Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so
lovely, so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men
can really stand her, without losing their souls.
She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong,
she takes his soul away from him and leaves him
not a beast, but an elemental creature,
intelligent and soulless. Intelligent, almost
inspired, and soulless, like the Etna Sicilians.
Intelligent daimons, and humanly, according to us,
the most stupid people on earth. Ach, horror! How
many men, how many races, has Etna put to flight?
It was she who broke the quick of the Greek soul.
And after the Greeks, she gave the Romans, the
Normans, the Arabs, the Spaniards, the French, the
Italians, even the English, she gave them all
their inspired hour and broke their souls.
[and this from the chapter "To Sorgono"]
...We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single peak —no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small part of the trunk.
It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered deep with grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, snow-heaved shoulder.
How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants...
to Sardinia index to top of this page
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