Fifty-Three Year Old: Gertrude Morel



It seemed to Paul his mother looked lonely, in her new black silk blouse with its bit of white trimming.

‘At any rate, mother, I s’ll never marry,’ he said.

‘Ay, they all say that, my lad. You’ve not met the one yet. Only wait a year or two.’

‘But I shan’t marry, mother. I shall live with you, and we’ll have a servant.’

‘Ah, my lad, it’s easy to talk. We’ll see when the time comes.’

‘What time? I’m nearly twenty-three.’

‘Yes, you’re not one that would marry young. But in three years’ time –’

‘I shall be with you just the same.’

‘We’ll see, my boy, we’ll see.’

‘But you don’t want me to marry?’

‘I shouldn’t like to think of you going through your life without anybody to care for you and do – no.’

‘And you think I ought to marry?’

‘Sooner or later every man ought.’

‘But you’d rather it were later.’

‘It would be hard – and very hard. It’s as they say:


“A son’s my son till he takes a wife,

But my daughter’s my daughter the whole of her life.”’


‘And you’d think I’d let a wife take me from you?’

‘Well, you wouldn’t ask her to marry your mother as well as you,’ Mrs Morel smiled.

‘She could do what she liked; she wouldn’t have to interfere.’

‘She wouldn’t – till she’d got you – and then you’d see.’

‘I never will see. I’ll never marry while I’ve got you – I won’t.’

‘But I shouldn’t like to leave you with nobody, my boy,’ she cried.

‘You’re not going to leave me. What are you? Fifty-three! I’ll give you to seventy-five. There you are, I’m fat and forty-four. Then I’ll marry a staid body. See!’

His mother sat and laughed.

 D. H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

Published in: 53 Years Old | on November 2nd, 2011 | No Comments »

Twenty-Seven Year Old – Lady Constance Chatterley


Lady Chatterley's Lover


Her body was going meaningless, going dull and opaque, so much insignificant substance. It made her feel immensely depressed and hopeless. What hope was there? She was old, old at twenty-seven, with no gleam and sparkle in the flesh. Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial. Fashionable women kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, by external attention. There was nothing inside the porcelain; but she was not even as bright as that. The mental life! Suddenly she hated it with a rushing fury, the swindle!

She looked in the other mirror’s reflection at her back, her waist, her loins. She was getting thinner, but to her it was not becoming. The crumple of her waist at the back, as she bent back to look, was a little weary; and it used to be so gay-looking. And the longish slope of her haunches and her buttocks had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. Gone! Only the German boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very nearly. How time went by! Ten years dead, and she was only twenty-seven

D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Published in: 27 Years Old | on March 6th, 2010 | No Comments »