Kangaroo is D. H. Lawrence's
eighth novel, set in Australia. He wrote the first draft in just
forty-five days while living south of Sydney, in 1922, and revised it
three months later in New Mexico. The descriptions of the country are
vivid and sympathetic and the book fuses lightly disguised autobiography
with an exploration of political ideas at an immensely personal level.
ptions of the different types of male silences are very, very good. The ups and down of a domestic relationship are also well done.
The book comes apart when he tries to integrate the personal with the political. The current feeling is that Lawrence did stumble upon a proto-fascist movement in Sydney in the 1920s. There is some element of reality being bent into shape by a supremely talented modernist author with romanticist leanings. The irrational politics of fascism could be a fertile field for such an author. And how Lawrence tries, but he does not have the tools. He has an intuitive understanding of the subconscious, but he can't entirely use this to comprehend the phenomenon of fascism. There was/is an appeal to the darker urges of the human psyche with the politics of fascism which Lawrence gropes toward but please do not read this book as an explanation of the Australian right between the wars. He just does not quite get it.
He gets into long and involved internal discussions of the nature of love and whether that is enough for politics. This is by far the worst part of the book. It is long and meandering and frankly makes little sense on any level.
This groping for understanding that is far from complete is on some levels reflected in the ambivalent character of Richard Lovat Somers. He has the ambivalence of Hamlet. He can almost make a choice, but it is always just out of his grasp because of some newly constructed reason.
ptions of the different types of male silences are very, very good. The ups and down of a domestic relationship are also well done.
The book comes apart when he tries to integrate the personal with the political. The current feeling is that Lawrence did stumble upon a proto-fascist movement in Sydney in the 1920s. There is some element of reality being bent into shape by a supremely talented modernist author with romanticist leanings. The irrational politics of fascism could be a fertile field for such an author. And how Lawrence tries, but he does not have the tools. He has an intuitive understanding of the subconscious, but he can't entirely use this to comprehend the phenomenon of fascism. There was/is an appeal to the darker urges of the human psyche with the politics of fascism which Lawrence gropes toward but please do not read this book as an explanation of the Australian right between the wars. He just does not quite get it.
He gets into long and involved internal discussions of the nature of love and whether that is enough for politics. This is by far the worst part of the book. It is long and meandering and frankly makes little sense on any level.
This groping for understanding that is far from complete is on some levels reflected in the ambivalent character of Richard Lovat Somers. He has the ambivalence of Hamlet. He can almost make a choice, but it is always just out of his grasp because of some newly constructed reason.
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