The White Peacock

The White Peacock

by D. H. Lawrence
3.7 6

NOOK BookDigitized from 1911 volume (eBook - Digitized from 1911 volume)

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Overview

The White Peacock by D. H. Lawrence

Lawrence's first novel is set in the Eastwood area of his youth, and involves such themes as the damage associated with mismatched marriages, and the border between town and country. The book includes some notable descriptions of nature and the impact of industrialisation, with a provincialism that may be compared with that of George Eliot and Thomas Hardy.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940023374635
Publisher: New York : Duffield
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book

About the Author

English novelist and poet David Herbert Richards "D. H." Lawrence (1885 - 1930) was also a playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter. Lawrence explored sexuality, emotional health and instinct in his works. His opinions earned him enemies, persecution and censorship. On his death, his reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his talents. But E. M. Forster, in an obituary, described him as "The greatest imaginative novelist of our generation."

Date of Birth:

September 11, 1885

Date of Death:

March 2, 1930

Place of Birth:

Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, England

Place of Death:

Vence, France

Education:

Nottingham University College, teacher training certificate, 1908

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The White Peacock 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
*glares* ((gtg))
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Yeah i did it to help u though so u can get ur info now
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
U should b published
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Did you rate your own story doll?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Thats a GREAT beginning
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
She paints a pretty picture, But the story has a twist, Her paint brush is a razor, And her canvas is her wrist, She paints her pretty picture, In a color that's blood red, While using her sharp paint brush, She finally ends up dead. Her pretty pictures fading, Quite slowly on her arm, The blood is not racing through her, She can no longer do harm. She painted her pretty picture, But her picture had a twist, You see her mind was her razor, And her heart was her wrist.