Of course I would love Lady Chatterley’s Lover, of course, of course, of course. I will always be partial to restless women—restless for one reason or another—and Lady Constance Chatterley belongs now to that specific pantheon in my head, with the likes of Emma Bovary, of April Wheeler. Women who desire, women who want something and want for something—these are the people my bibliophilic heart beats heaviest for. (And, hah, not to mention their illicit loves and the series of delightfully cathartic poor judgment calls and the convoluted ways they try to make themselves happy.)
But. Since reading [and being confident of my love for] the book, I have tried to explain, to at least try to articulate—even once using it as an example to measure my affections—that its bite did not draw blood. That I recognized Connie Chatterley, and knew her all too well, and absolutely understood her restlessness, and would rally for her until my breath grew hoarse—but I wasn’t Connie Chatterley, not fully, not right now—and I haven’t been for a long time? Well. Just maybe, this might explain it: Connie, early on, thinks: Perhaps the human soul needs excursions, and must not be denied them. But the point of an excursion is that you come home again.
[PSA — I read Lady Chatterley's Lover as part of Long-Awaited Reads Month.]