Sons and Lovers

Sons and Lovers

by D. H. Lawrence

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The refined daughter of a 'good old burgher family,' Gertrude Coppard meets a rough-hewn miner at a Christmas dance and falls into a whirlwind romance characterised by physical passion. But soon after her marriage to Walter Morel, she realises the difficulties of living off his meagre salary in a rented house. The couple fight and drift apart and Walter retreats to the pub after work each day. Gradually, Mrs. Morel's affections shift to her sons beginning with the oldest, William. As a boy, William is so attached to his mother that he doesn't enjoy the fair without her. As he grows older, he defends her against his father's occasional violence. Eventually, he leaves their Nottinghamshire home for a job in London, where he begins to rise up into the middle class. He is engaged, but he detests the girl's superficiality. He dies and Mrs. Morel is heartbroken, but when Paul catches pneumonia she rediscovers her love for her second son. (Excerpt from Wikipedia)

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9783956761522
Publisher: Otbebookpublishing
Publication date: 12/27/2015
Series: Classics To Go , #296
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 610
File size: 806 KB
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

David Herbert Lawrence (11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930) was an English writer and poet. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Some of the issues Lawrence explores are sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. (Wikipedia)

Date of Birth:

September 11, 1885

Date of Death:

March 2, 1930

Place of Birth:

Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England

Place of Death:

Vence, France


Nottingham University College, teacher training certificate, 1908

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The Early Married Life of the Morels

“The bottoms" succeeded to "Hell Row." Hell Row was a block of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There lived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small mines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these same pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the few colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and the meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs here and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.

Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place. The gin-pits were elbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron field of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite and Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally opened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood Forest.

About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had acquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed away.

Carston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the valleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until soon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone among the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the Carthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to Minton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands of the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running north to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of Derbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a loop of fine chain, the railway.

To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the Squares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood, and then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the Bottoms.

The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rows of three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a block. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp slope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on the slow climb of the valley towards Selby.

The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk all round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in the shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny top block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet hedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that was the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing inward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits, went the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the men smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that was so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because people must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that nasty alley of ash-pits.

Mrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was already twelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it from Bestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an end house in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; on the other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, she enjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the "between" houses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of five shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not much consolation to Mrs. Morel.

She was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather small woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a little from the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in the July, and in the September expected her third baby.

Her husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home three weeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to make a holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day of the fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven, fled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground, leaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs. Morel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no one with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to the wakes after dinner.

William appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad, fair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him.

"Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried, rushing in with his cap on. " 'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so."

"You can have your dinner as soon as it's done," replied the mother.

"Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation. "Then I'm goin' be-out it."

"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is only half-past twelve."

"They'll be beginnin'," the boy half cried, half shouted.

"You won't die if they do," said the mother. "Besides, it's only half-past twelve, so you've a full hour."

The lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down. They were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off his chair and stood perfectly still. Some distance away could be heard the first small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. His face quivered as he looked at his mother.

"I told you!" he said, running to the dresser for his cap.

"Take your pudding in your hand–and it's only five past one, so you were wrong–you haven't got your twopence," cried the mother in a breath.

The boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then went off without a word.

"I want to go, I want to go," said Annie, beginning to cry.

"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!" said the mother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under the tall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, and cattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful.

Mrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, one going by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding, and there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of the cocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from the peep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outside the Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that had killed a negro and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone, and went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in front of her, wildly excited.

"You never said you was coming–isn't the' a lot of things?–that lion's killed three men–I've spent my tuppence–an' look here."

He pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them.

"I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in them holes. An' I got these two in two goes–'aepenny a go–they've got moss-roses on, look here. I wanted these."

She knew he wanted them for her.

"H'm!" she said, pleased. "They are pretty!"

"Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?"

He was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground, showed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained the pictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. He would not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling with a small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as she did, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she saw women she knew. When she was tired she said to her son:

"Well, are you coming now, or later?"

"Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face full of reproach.

"Already? It is past four, I know."

"What are you goin' a'ready for?" he lamented.

"You needn't come if you don't want," she said.

And she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stood watching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave the wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Stars she heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little, thinking her husband was probably in the bar.

At about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, and somewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, because he had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed his wakes.

"Has my dad been?" he asked.

"No," said the mother.

"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that black tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up."

"Ha!" exclaimed the mother shortly. "He's got no money. An' he'll be satisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not."

When the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, she rose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, the restlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She went out into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, the children hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse. Occasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry. Sometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But usually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothers stood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank, folding their arms under their white aprons.

Mrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her little girl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her, fixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The world seemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her–at least until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this dreary endurance–till the children grew up. And the children! She could not afford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was serving beer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and was tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were not for William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and ugliness and meanness.

She went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.

The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There she stood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and the fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile that led uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cut pastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sank quickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grew dark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare the diminished commotion of the fair.

Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under the hedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run down the steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, rather pathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him.

She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She was beginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so far away from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walking heavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up the breakwater at Sheerness ten years before.

"What have I to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have I to do with all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as if I were taken into account."

Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.

"I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself–"I wait, and what I wait for can never come."

Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, looked out the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After which she sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashed regularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieve herself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of what she had, for the children's sakes.

At half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red and very shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He was pleased with himself.

"Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what's think he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'fcrown, an' that's ivry penny–"

"He thinks you've made the rest up in beer," she said shortly.

"An' I 'aven't–that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very little this day, I have an' all." His voice went tender. "Here, an' I browt thee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children." He laid the gingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. "Nay, tha niver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?"

As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it had any milk.

"It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill Hodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter? Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham, Walter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' so I took one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes, but 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' so, yer see, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, 'e's a nice chap!"

"A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunk along with him," said Mrs. Morel.

Table of Contents

General editor's preface; Acknowledgements; Chronology; Cue-titles; Introduction; Sons and Lovers; Appendixes; Explanatory notes; Glossary; Textual apparatus; A note on pounds, shillings and pence.

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

Praise for D.H. Lawrence

“The greatest imaginative novelist of our generation.”—E. M. Forster

“He was a language, a setting, a world entirely of his own...He was, like all true poetry, against tepid living and tepid loves…[giving] full expression to the gestures of passion.”—Anaïs Nin


No other writer with his imaginative standing has in our time written books that are so open to life.

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Sons and Lovers 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 108 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book evokes a complete world as very few others I have read. The main characters are so well written you feel you know them, you sympathize with them, you can see them in your mind. It is also is a very sensual book at times. Lawrence creates sexual tension between the romantic leads, and uses natural settings to heighten those tensions. The book is ultimately about the relationships between the members of a family and their friends, and describes those relationships beautifully, but in the end, to me, sadly.
Kat_2010 More than 1 year ago
I read this book for an APLIT project and overall, I thought the book was very good. It was interesting and not hard to read. Some parts drag on a bit and the characters' love affairs can get a little annoying towards the end of the book because it seems as if they can't make up their mind when it comes to being with someone. None the less, I would highly recommend the novel, and although it might take you a while to read, it's worth it.
andreablythe on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Essentially this stretches a working family's life into epic proportions, giving minutia and emotions scope. The main focus is on the son Paul Morrel, who is caught between his mother and his lover, Miriam, and the emotional tug and pull that that causes. Meh. The writing is great and I really enjoyed learning about the family and their internal conflicts in the beginning, but as the story stretched on and on and on, I grew tired of it. It was too long, too meandering, and I only finished it because it was on audio book and I needed something to listen to on the way to work.
janemarieprice on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
What an amazing book this is! The character is one which we can all relate to in the beautiful coming of age story. The plot is indicative of the time it was written but the themes go far beyond that.
LitReact on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
One notable aspect of Lawrence's work is the simplicity of how it is written. Lawrence does not go overboard with his descriptions and drama. Everything is kept just right. Never focusing too long on details that would not matter, such as how the view looked from head to toe, what tree did they pass, how many items were there in the house - he gave just the right amount of attention to every detail in the novel to ensure that the readers would not grow bored from reading things which they have absolutely or little interest in and leaves these details to tackle the issues or concerns that are much more pressing. It is in stories like these that prove to readers and writers alike that simplicity is a powerful tool for presenting what one wants to say and having the audience understand what he or she is trying to say without much explanation. While there are words that have changed from 1913 to the present, it is still written so that despite the changes in the times, the words could still be linked to their present word and meaning. A few examples are morphia for morphine and programme for the program of the drama or play.While the language and simplicity are notable enough, another aspect of Lawrence's writing that makes the work move like a panther in a cage, moving back and forth restlessly in the small space it has been given, growling and tense, waiting to jump out and run into the wild, is the power of his characters' emotions and feelings that flow off the pages and seep into the readers' skin, drawing them nearer to the characters and their own motives. The greatest example is Mrs. Morel. While readers might not personally like the idea of her having a possessive, obsessive love for her son/s, she makes it so that the readers side with her, first of all by making her the spunky housewife that does not allow her husband to take the power away from her and by continually doing everything she can to ensure that her son/s would always return to her despite their current infatuation with a certain girl. She is so strong that she manipulates the people, especially her sons, to remember or heed her words and even have them think the way she does. Despite her overbearing and unnatural love, she is the kind of character that readers later on sympathize with and hope that she would leave Paul in the state he is in. Another great example is Miriam. Though the reaction did not tackle her deeply, she is one of the most memorable characters in the sense that she is so strange in her way of behaving that when she comes to love Paul and loves him with her soul, willing to sacrifice himself to whatever he wanted, the readers feel that she is either a saint with a tight hold on Paul or a saint that wanted to be rewarded for her being good by getting what she wanted.
Luli81 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Another of Lawrence's gems.Not as good as Women in Love, but still worth reading.In this work you can easily notice one of Lawrence's obsessions. The love for his mother.
richardderus on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I was in a foul humor, so I decided to take it out on a book I hate.Rating: 0.125* of five BkC51) [SONS AND LOVERS] by [[D.H. Lawrence]]: The worst, most horrendously offensively overrated piece of crap I've read in my life. Yeup. Since I'm in a real bitch-slappin' mood, here goes. The Book Report: Sensitive, aesthetic nebbish gets born to rough miner and his neurasthenic dishcloth of a wife. She falls in love with her progeny and tries to Save Him From Being Like His Father, which clearly is a fate worse than death. So, lady, if you didn't like the guy, why didn't you just become a prostitute like all the other women too dumb to teach did in the 19th century? Things drone tediously on, some vaguely coherent sentences pass before one's eyes, the end and not a moment too soon. My Review: Listen. DH Lawrence couldn't write his way out of a wet paper bag. The reason his stuff is known at all today is the scene in Lady Chatterly where the gamekeeper bangs her from behind. Oh, and those two dudes wrestling naked in front of the fireplace in Women in Love. Believe me when I tell you, those are *the* highlights of the man's ouevre. The hero of this book, Paul MOREL, is named after a bloody MUSHROOM! He's as soft and ishy and vaguely dirty-smelling as a mushroom, too. Lawrence was one of those lads I'd've beaten the snot out of in grade school, just because he was gross. Weedy and moist are the two words that leap forcefully to mind when I contemplate his sorry visage, which exercise in masochistic knowledge-seeking I do not urge upon you. If you, for some reason, liked this tedious, crapulous drivel, then goody good good, but if we're friends, I urge you not to communicate your admiration to me. It will not do good things for our relationship. I more easily forgive Hemingwayism than affection for this.
JimmyChanga on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
indulgent and personal and true. but in a good way. I really loved this one.
jayne_charles on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Quite an oddity among 'classics' of this age - it started off fairly prim and proper, and then once it got beyond half way if I'm not much mistaken there was sex on every other page. More or less.If DH Lawrence wrote this from personal experience I can only conclude his mother was one scary lady.
bennyb on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A very long piece of literature. I found this quite hard work to finish. Worth a read if you are interested in Freudian ideals. I prefered Lady Chatterley's lover.
branfulness on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
First part of this book is about the family history of the Morel family, or Mrs Morel's sons. Second part is about Paul Morel's lovers. It is a bi-focal novel, so to speak. I am rather interested Miriam's apathy to body love, which reminds me of Aritha in Gide's "Narrow Gate." Paul cannot be satisfied with Miriam nor Clara. He must recognize his unique way of existence. When I first read this at 19, it felt quite long and tedious. Now I can allow for the detailed descriptions in the first part of the book and I can wait for the drama to build up. But if you are young and reading Lawrence for the first time, I advise you to avoid this.
BetaCummins on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was my first D. H. Lawrence. I was, simply put, charmed. His detailed descriptions of places, characters, personalities, situations, feelings, are very grasping in their own smooth ways. It seems all classics hold that very descriptive factor that will eventually bore you or put you to sleep. Not this one.
samantha464 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Love it. I have to say, I've never been a big D.H. Lawrence fan, but this had me so caught up I was almost embarrassed to read it in public (but I did anyway)!
npbone on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A book where not much happens, it's more of a study on interpersonal relationships and how we stumble our way through misguided ideals of love and romance. I actually liked this book more than I thought I was going to.
wiremonkey on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I thought I had read this book but I hope to heaven that I didn't because I didn't remember a single thing from it. In pure Lawrence style, sometimes achingly lyrical, sometimes achingly annoying and embarrassing, it is still a good read as well as an intense portrait of the oedipal relationship between mother and son.
Ibreak4books on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I didn't like Lawrence when I was a youngin, but now that I am a little older, I totally get it--the sexes cannot live in harmony, but we are drawn to the the "otherness" of, well, the other. Superb prose. Superb conjuring of nature, and that most illusive of all things--the mother/son relationship.
pmf on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
No one looks deeper into nature and human nature than D.H. Lawrence.
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Wanted to read for awhile now...others in series
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Sons and lovers is book that deals with a middle class British family everyone can relate to a character. The book deals relationships with family and the main character Paul Morel. The book starts of between how the mother and father and then it talks about the children Paul, William, and his sister. Anyway if you want to read about a british family in the nineteen twenty about their every struggles you should read this book. It will make you laugh, some parts will make you mad especially William and his girlfriend.
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