Women in Love Page #2

The fissure. The yoni.

The wonderful...

moist conductivity towards the centre.

Involved...in-turned.

One small way of access, only,

and this, close-curtained from the light.

Sap that smells strange on your fingers,

so that even goats won't taste it.

And when the fig has kept her secret

long enough...

...so it explodes

and you see, through the fissure,

the scarlet.

And the fig is finished. The year is over.

That's how the fig dies.

Showing her crimson

through the purple slit.

Like a wound.

The exposure of her secret

on the open day.

Like a prostitute,

the bursten fig

makes a show of her secret.

That's how women die too.

Would you like to come for a walk?

Would you like to come for a walk?

The dahlias are so pretty!

Will you come for a walk, Rupert?

No...Hermione.

But are you sure?

- Quite sure.

- And why not?

Because I don't like

trooping off in a gang.

But the dahlias are so pretty.

I've seen them.

Then we'll leave a little boy behind,

if he's sulky.

Goodbye!

- Goodbye, little boy!

- Bye!

Impudent hag.

Have you ever really loved...anybody?

Yes and no.

But not finally.

Finally, no.

Nor I.

Do you want to?

I don't know.

I do.

I want...the finality of love.

Just one woman?

Just one woman.

I don't believe a woman...

and nothing but...

a woman...

will ever make my life.

You don't?

Then what do you live for, Gerald?

I suppose I live for my work.

And other than that, I live...

...because I'm living.

I find...

that one needs one single, pure activity.

I would call love a single, pure activity.

But I don't really love anybody.

Not now.

You mean that...

that if there isn't a woman...

then there's nothing?

More or less that.

Seeing there's no God.

Rupert, what is it you really want?

I want...

to sit with my beloved in a field...

...with daisies growing all around us.

We have devised

an entertainment for you.

In the style of the Russian ballet.

Who are those Brangwen girls?

Teachers in the grammar school.

Gudrun pretends she's an artist.

Well. What's their father?

Handicraft instructor

in the grammar school.

Really?

Class barriers are breaking down.

That their father teaches handicraft

at a school, doesn't matter to me.

I shall be Orpah.

A vivid, sensational widow.

I'm only just a widow.

And I slowly dance the death

of my husband,

before returning to my former life.

And Gudrun...

will be the beautiful Ruth.

Her husband, too,

has just now died.

And she weeps with me

and laments.

And Ursula...

will be the mother-in-law.

Naomi.

Our husbands

were her sons.

Her own husband died years ago.

Thus, all her men are dead.

She stands alone. Demanding nothing.

And the Contessa...

will be the wheat fields,

rippling in the evening air.

And Birkin will turn the pages

for the maestro.

Yes!

Ooh...

Yes! Oh...

Yes! Yes!

I can't do it!

You little tart!

Madame!

Hey, where are you going?

- Gerald!

- Coming!

I'm sorry if I...

spoilt your dance.

It was an act of pure spontaneity.

My arse!

You can't bear anything

to be spontaneous, can you?

Cause then it's no longer in your power.

You must clutch things

and have them in your power.

And why? Because you haven't got

any real body.

Any dark sensual body of life.

All you've got

is your will and your lust for power.

How can you...

not think me sensual?

All you want is pornography.

Looking at yourself in mirrors.

Watching your naked animal actions

in mirrors.

Keeping it all in your consciousness,

making it all mental.

If one cracked your skull,

maybe one could get a...

spontaneous,

passionate woman out of you.

With real sensuality.

No, you don't, Hermione.

I don't let you.

I shall not cease from mental fight

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land

And Jesus Christ, our Lord,

hath said

that greater love hath no man

than he who lays down his life

for his brother.

And no greater love hath man

than the love of man for man,

and brother for brother.

We shall now move forward,

into an uninterrupted age

of brotherhood and love.

For love is the greatest thing the...

You might as well say

that hate is the greatest.

What people want is hate.

Hate, and nothing but hate.

In the name of

righteousness and love,

ye shall have hate.

Out of love, ye shall throw down

nitroglycerine bombs,

and ye shall kill your brother.

It's the lie that kills.

Oh, if people want hate,

let them have it.

Death, torture, murder, violent destruction.

Let's have it!

- But not in the name of love.

- Sorry.

Oh, I abhor humanity.

I wish it'd be swept away.

It could go,

and there would be no absolute loss,

if every human being perished tomorrow.

I beg your pardon.

So. You want everybody

in the world destroyed.

Yes. Absolutely.

Well, you yourself. Don't you think

it's a wonderful, clear idea?

A world empty of people.

Just uninterrupted grass

and a rabbit sitting in it.

Mm... You don't seem to see much love

in humanity.

- What about individual love?

- I don't believe in love.

Anymore than I believe in hate or grief.

Love is an emotion.

You feel or you don't feel,

according to your circumstances.

If you don't believe in love,

what do you believe in?

Just in the end of the world

and...rabbits?

The point, about L-O-V-E,

is that we hate the word

because we vulgarise it.

It should be taboo.

Forbidden from utterance,

for many years,

till we find a new and a better idea.

Well...I shall just have to leave it to you

to send your new and better idea

down from the holy altar.

When you think the world is ready,

of course.

Ha! Ha! Come on!

Come on, you! Ha! Ha-ha-ha!

Come on, you b*tch!

Ha! Ha-ha-ha!

Gerald, what are you doing?

Gerald! Oh, don't!

- Oh, Gudrun, do something!

- Be quiet!

Please!

Gerald!

I wish you'd do something.

Get in there!

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!

I should think you're proud!

Report to the office.

I'm sorry, Dewhurst.

Can't you keep him on a little longer?

I've already replaced him, Father.

Don't you think that his pension

will be sufficient?

'Tis not the pension.

It's the work.

I still have

a few more years' work left in me.

Not the sort of work I want.

They hate you.

I'm glad I won't have to see it much longer.

Their hate is better than your love.

You made a fortune

exploiting them.

And now you're trying to ease your guilt

by slipping them a few coins.

At least I...give them a fair salary,

if they can do the work.

There'll be few of them left to pay soon.

You and your new machines.

Yes, me and my new machines.

They say you've stopped the widows' coal.

We've always allowed all the widows

of men who worked for the firm

a load of coal, every three months.

Well, they'll have to pay cost price

from now on.

The firm's not the charitable institution

you seem to think it is, Father.

Will you take us home, please?

- How's your wife, Thomas?

- Fine, thank you, sir.

Good.

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