This is the second book I read for my MFA's essay on writing craft with the aim to see how horses fare in literature and I must say I am...filled with mild regret.

Now, Lawrence is obviously a master storyteller. I can't imagine a better capturing of the feelings post WWI, the contrast of loss and too much-ness; the overweighing depression amongst splendor; the turning to nature to fill the void of industrialism. His prose is jaw-dropping. I wouldn't be surprised if Lawrence walked around with the cosmos in his eyes. So, I'm saying, for the record, that D.H. Lawrence deserves his place amongst classic writers, and his level of natural wordcraft was last seen around Thoreau and Blake.

THAT BEING SAID, I swear to God, St. Mawr is one breathy voice actor away from being furry erotica, and it made me distinctly uncomfortable. What also would have been awesome is put Louise on anti-depressants, geez, guuuuurrrrrllll, you messed uP.