Fall 1952 • Vol. XIV No. 4 Nonfiction |

Norman Douglas

So, while her arm rested lightly on mine, we wandered about those gardens, the saintly lady and myself; her mind dwelling, maybe, on memories of her one classic love-adventure and the part she came nigh to playing in the history of Europe, while mine was lost in a maze of vulgar love-adventures which came nigh to making me play a part in the police courts of Rome.—from Alone, referring to Malida von Meyserberg the mystic. Norman Douglas died last spring on Capri, a handsome, white-haired, venerably boisterous old gentleman of eighty-four who had survived many reverses of fortune, including official banishment from Italy by the Fascists from the mid-thirties until 1946. Like Lawrence and several other writers of the between-wars period, Douglas was taken more literally than dramatically or critically by his American readers. That is, one took (or rejected) his more declamatory ideas about modern civilization, as put into the mouths of the two principal spokesmen of South Wind,

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So, while her arm rested lightly on mine, we wandered about those gardens, the saintly lady and myself; her mind dwelling, maybe, on memories of her one classic love-adventure and […]

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