Il Duro by D.H. Lawrence
Four personal, sun-drenched sketches of Lawrence's experiences in Italy.
As is usually the case with Lawrence’s writing, I was completely disengaged. Although some of his eloquent descriptions of nature, or scenery, were gorgeous and enjoyable, there just didn’t seem to be a point to any of it. None of his ramblings clicked together to provide any epiphanies; everything just plodded along in a masquerade depicting Italy.
The four stories don’t seem to have any connection with one another, and felt as though they had been selected and thrown into the collection haphazardly. Of these, John struck me as the one with most potential, but after coming to its apex, John’s story was abandoned for a few paragraphs heavily describing some fields. I was thrilled.
I absolutely did read some really nice snippets of prose here, but the overall lack of purpose permeated the pages to the extent I couldn’t bring myself to read the last story. This is the 71st book I’ve read in the Little Black Classics range, and I have to admit my patience is dwindling with some of the instalments Penguin have chosen to include.