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D.H. Lawrence to Blanche Jennings, October 9, 1908:

The Letters of D. H. Lawrence: ...Pray do not trouble me about that paper on Art; I did not want it, I wanted your acknowledgement. I'm glad you like iut--I had much rather you found it to your taste than that your friend 'J' should. She is a Ruskinite; well, all Ruskinites are not fools. Does she herself 'make haste to see that none are in need of employment, food, or raiment', or does she spend the bulk of her time--her leisure--in reading appreciated novels and serious if not profound discourses on all manner of irrelevant subjects; in listening to lectures on Pre-Raphaelitism and the Ideal Home in attending concerts and Shaw-plays? I wrote the perp for her, not for the Bottom Dog; but because I would ask her to make up her m ind to turn her nose from the slum-stink; she is offended on behalf of poor, hungry, stinking humanity; as a matter of fact the snifs she takes are few and cautious; then, with the memory of a bad odor in her nostrils, or the report of a bad odor in her ears, she holds her head high and waxes indignant; feels virtuous on the strength of that same 'righteous indignation'. What devil was it that decreed that above all things men (and women supremely) must to themselves seem superbly virtuous? The deep damnation of self-righteousnss sticks tight to every creed, to every 'ism' and every 'ite'; but it lies thik all over the Ruskinite, like painted feathers on a skinny peacock.

As for the paper, keep it as long as you like, give it to whom you like, and to you think I could do anything with it? Where could I send short stories such as I write? Not to any magazine I know of--an you advise me? I will take to writing frivolously and whimsically if I can--if I could but write as I behave! There, I've had twenty years experience in dishing up my strong flavoured feelings in a nice smooth milk sauce with a sprinkle of nutmeg or cinnamon, but I've only had a few months of experience in making melted butter to be served with my writing.

I'm glad you're living in 'opulent idleness'. I've had three weeks of it (no mine was bourgeois idleness, that only keeps two maids) and I find it extremely suitable to me.

Concerning Daisy Lord, I am entirely in accord with you.[1] If I had my way, I would build a lethal chamber as big as the Crystal Palace, with a military band playing softly, adn a Cinematograph working brightly; then I'd go out in the back streets and main streets and bring them all in, all the sick, the halt, and the maimed; I would lead them gently, and they would smile me a weary thanks; and the band would softly bubble out the 'Hallelujah Chorus'.

I have no more time. I will send ou my new address. Write to me...

[1] Daisy Lord was sentenced to death in July 1908 for the murder of her illegitimate child; on August 15 the death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment