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reproduced it in
Sons and Lovers,
whose triumph as art was to give
him so little lasting satisfaction. Art could not fulfill Lawrence's search,
and only death could end it. But the ecstasy of a single human
relationship that he tried to reproduce never congealed into a single
image or idol or belief. Imaginatively, Lawrence was free; which is
why his work could literally rise like a phoenix out of the man who
consumed himself in his conflict with himself.
