Strangely enough, Lawrence repeatedly distanced himself from his contemporaries and aligned himself with Victorian writers like George Eliot and Thomas Hardy. Modern writers, he insisted, unlike him "who as a novelist feels it is the change inside the individual which is (his) real concern."(Lawrence, State of Funk, p.367) were too clever and unfeeling, too preoccupied with individual consciousness:
So there you have the "serious" novel, dying in a very long-drawn-out fourteen-
volume death-agony, and absorbedly, childishly interested in the phenomenon.
"Did I feel a twinge in my little toe, or didn't I?" asks every character of Mr Joyce
or of Miss Richardson or M. Proust. Is my aura a blend of frankincense and orange pekoe and boot-blacking, or is it myrrh and bacon-fat and Shetland tweed? The audience round the death-bed gapes for the answer. And when, in a sepulchral tone, the answer comes at length, after hundreds of pages: "It is none of these, it is abysmal chloro-coryanbasis, "the audience quivers all over, and murmurs: "That's just how I feel myself" ("Surgery for the Novel - or a Bomb?" 1923).
Here, it is