Women in Love

He was silent for a time.

'I don't feel as if we were, ALTOGETHER,' he replied. 'Some people are

pure flowers of dark corruption--lilies. But there ought to be some

roses, warm and flamy. You know Herakleitos says "a dry soul is best."

I know so well what that means. Do you?' 'I'm not sure,' Ursula replied. 'But what if people ARE all flowers of

dissolution--when they're flowers at all--what difference does it

make?' 'No difference--and all the difference. Dissolution rolls on, just as

production does,' he said. 'It is a progressive process--and it ends in

universal nothing--the end of the world, if you like. But why isn't the

end of the world as good as the beginning?' 'I suppose it isn't,' said Ursula, rather angry.

'Oh yes, ultimately,' he said. 'It means a new cycle of creation

after--but not for us. If it is the end, then we are of the end--fleurs

du mal if you like. If we are fleurs du mal, we are not roses of

happiness, and there you are.' 'But I think I am,' said Ursula. 'I think I am a rose of happiness.' 'Ready-made?' he asked ironically.

'No--real,' she said, hurt.

'If we are the end, we are not the beginning,' he said.

'Yes we are,' she said. 'The beginning comes out of the end.' 'After it, not out of it. After us, not out of us.' 'You are a devil, you know, really,' she said. 'You want to destroy our

hope. You WANT US to be deathly.' 'No,' he said, 'I only want us to KNOW what we are.' 'Ha!' she cried in anger. 'You only want us to know death.' 'You're quite right,' said the soft voice of Gerald, out of the dusk

behind.

Birkin rose. Gerald and Gudrun came up. They all began to smoke, in the

moments of silence. One after another, Birkin lighted their cigarettes.

The match flickered in the twilight, and they were all smoking

peacefully by the water-side. The lake was dim, the light dying from

off it, in the midst of the dark land. The air all round was

intangible, neither here nor there, and there was an unreal noise of

banjoes, or suchlike music.

As the golden swim of light overhead died out, the moon gained

brightness, and seemed to begin to smile forth her ascendancy. The dark

woods on the opposite shore melted into universal shadow. And amid this

universal under-shadow, there was a scattered intrusion of lights. Far

down the lake were fantastic pale strings of colour, like beads of wan

fire, green and red and yellow. The music came out in a little puff, as

the launch, all illuminated, veered into the great shadow, stirring her

outlines of half-living lights, puffing out her music in little drifts.