[In the following essay, Kay compares Giono's and D. H. Lawrence's approaches to the Dionysian themes of death and rebirth.]

The cult of Dionysus involves two closely related elements: Dionysus as the symbol and god of the seasonal renewal of the plant world and Dionysus as the personified idea of a recurrent death and rebirth. A third strong element of the myth is the concept of inspiration brought about by some kind of communion with the god, a communion caused by participation in some ritual act. The followers of Dionysus, when they reach the frenzied climax of the ritual dance, are in a trance-like state which infuses them with the presence of the god. The divinely possessed votary of Dionysus assumes the powers of the nature-god, to call forth the symbols of a productive harvest, milk and wine, wine because it “seemed to come from the deepest source of the life of things … it was the quintessence of the god-life that moved in the juices and sap of the earth.”¹ All aspects of the ritual combine for the sole purpose of working vegetation magic; of renewing the world.

The myths of all the vegetation gods show features, however, of the nature of a universe far larger than the plant world; they reveal the seminal unity of life and death, on the one hand, and the hope man has for eternal life, on the other.

From this point of view, we may look upon the myths of the sufferings, deaths, and resurrections of the vegetation gods as paradigms of the state of mankind; they reveal ‘nature’ better and more intimately than any empirical or rational experience and observation could.²

The Dionysian religion exemplified the belief that through a highly exalted state of feeling man could be raised above the limits of his normal, everyday consciousness and that man could be elevated to “heights of vision and knowledge unlimited.”³ Thus Dionysus became the model for the type of artist who communes with some existence which is wholly other than individual, the artist whose mode is the reunification of the self with the primordial origin and innermost heart of things.⁴ The Dionysian awareness culminates in an intensely positive affirmation of all of life, even of its most difficult problems, and involves an eternal joy in forever becoming and never being fixed.⁵ This joy is enacted in the sheer ecstacies of the Dionysian revels, the participants of which recognize the eternity of life flowing under the flux and the power inherent in that eternal phenomenon realized in each individual life. The recognition of eternity of life results in the affirmation of life in all its aspects, or what Camus, discussing Nietzsche, calls “absolute affirmation.”

To say yes to the world, to reproduce it, is simultaneously to recreate the world and oneself, to become the great artist, the creator … the world is divine because the world is illogical. That is why art alone, by being equally illogical, is capable of grasping it … art can teach us to reproduce it—just as the world reproduces itself … he who consents to his return and to the return of all things … participates in the divinity of the world.⁶

Allied to the myth of Dionysus is the myth of Pan, the powerful, awesome, life-giving god of antiquity whose presence was too much for man to behold in daylight, whose presence struck terror into the hearts of men while simultaneously suggesting the life which was a part of all nature. The satyrs and fauns, the children of Pan, are life-giving forces, says Lawrence:

the nymphs, running among the trees … made the myrtles blossom more gaily, and the spring bubble up with greater urge, and the birds splash with a strength of life. And the lithe flanks of the faun gave life to the oak-groves, the vast trees hummed with energy. And the wheat sprouted like green rain returning out of the ground, in the little fields, and the vine hung its black drops in abundance, urging a secret.⁷

When man is aware of Pan and the concomitant power in nature, then his life is vitally changed as he participates in the “earth-power” gathered up from the “dark bowels of the earth.”⁸ With a Pan-universe there is a constant struggle for life, but it is a joyous struggle, a struggle which demonstrates a vivid relationship between man and the living universe which surrounds him. If man is aware of his unity with the Pan-Dionysiac life-cycle of the universe, he can remain human, but he must recognize and cultivate his primal union with nature.

Lawrence and Giono, in their empathy for the Dionysian myth, share certain characteristics both stylistic and biographical. Primary among the former are passages dominated by a clipped style, often repetitive, which blossoms into flashing and metaphoric statement when climactic scenes or descriptions occur. Foremost among the latter are the search, in the case of Lawrence, for a place where myth is still viably alive; and the retreat, in the case of Giono, into the countryside where the natural world at least gives hints of magic. To incorporate the mythical, both artists have recourse to ritualistic scenes. But Lawrence works on the one hand with statement, action, and suggestion (as in Women in Love, The Rainbow, St. Mawr, and The Fox) and on the other hand in an explicitly mythical framework (The Man Who Died, The Plumed Serpent), while Giono prefers to use the hypernatural, almost supernatural character (Antonio in Le Chant du Monde, Bobi in Que Ma Joie Demeure, Panturle in Regain) as an adjunct to the nonhuman but living cosmos.

For Lawrence, the very notion of fulfillment is intensely individual yet never wholly separable from the cosmos. His idea of a union of individuals emphasizes the individual; the idea of losing oneself in some communal whole was repugnant to him. Any concept of God as “the Anima Mundi, the Oversoul, drawing with a pair of compasses and making everything to scale”⁹ results in “the realm of static fixity, mechanism, materialism;”¹⁰ and the only creative reality “proceeds from the ever inscrutable quicks of living beings, men, women, animals, plants.”¹¹ But to be individual is not automatic; Lawrence in fact despised the idea of “automatic.” To be individual is to become a “living self” which

… has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being, as a tree comes into full blossom … or a tiger into lustre.

But this coming into full, spontaneous being is the most difficult of all. Man's nature is balanced between spontaneous creativity and mechanical-material activity … The only thing man has to trust to in coming to himself is his desire and his impulse. But both desire and impulse tend to fall … from spontaneous reality into dead or material reality. All our education should be a guarding against this fall … all our efforts in all our life must be to preserve the soul free and spontaneous.¹²

The free and spontaneous cannot be cultivated, since cultivation implies a conscious setting up of some program to be followed; a set program creates a goal; and the pattern ultimately becomes mechanical, denying the very spontaneity which it ostensibly seeks. A spontaneous soul is one which is open to the universe, vivid and vital in its “moving toward a blossoming: and the most powerful is that which moves toward the as-yet-unknown blossom. Blossoming means the establishing of a pure, new relationship with the cosmos …”¹³ If the relationship is new, it must be “as-yet-unknown,” not like the conscious goal of a mechanical pattern which predictably results in a foreseen, and foregone, conclusion. The blossom is an aptly chosen image because it is unknown until it finally opens; though of course certain characteristics may be predicted; “there is no pulling open the buds to see what the blossom will be. Leaves must unroll, buds swell and open, and then the blossom. …”¹⁴ The ability of man to “blossom,” to open himself to the universe, is “the wholeness of a faculty which modern man collectively has lost, that faculty of great and intricately developed sensual awareness, or sense-awareness, and sense-knowledge, of the ancients. It was a great depth of knowledge arrived at direct, by instinct and intuition, as we say, not by reason. It was a knowledge based not on words but on images … the connection was not logical but emotional.”¹⁵

To bring the life, the essential being, of man down from the mind and back into the vital “lower consciousness,” is to make possible continual renewal in the creative action which results from the dynamic interaction of the “upper” and “lower” consciousness. “The upper, dynamic-objective plane is complementary to the lower, dynamic-subjective. The mystery of creative opposition exists all the time between the two planes, and this unison in opposition between the two planes forms the first … whole field of consciousness.”¹⁶ This dynamic opposition exists within the individual, between two individuals, and in fact in the universe. For Lawrence, the whole history of modern culture from Greece forward tended toward what he saw as the contemporary triumph of the machine. His desire to be freed “from our tight little automatic ‘universe’, to go back to the great living cosmos of the ‘unenlightened’ pagans,”¹⁷ was not a desire to retreat from civilization, but rather was a desire to recapture this “living cosmos” in everyday life. He “set for himself the task of reawakening the mythical consciousness in man … to reverse the evolution of mythos into logos.”¹⁸ The mythical consciousness provides an atmosphere in which immediate experience is possible; “Lawrence writes out of the recognition that as man has become emancipated from mythical thinking … the wealth and fullness of immediate experience have become more remote from his life.”¹⁹ Immediate experience of the living cosmos renews, in creative activity, both man and the universe, for “the fixed and stable universe of law and matter, even the whole cosmos, would wear out and disintegrate if it did not rest and find renewal in the quick center of creative life in individual creatures.”²⁰

The world of Giono's fiction is not the mechanical world of industry. Giono deplores the mechanization caused by industry because it is no longer possible for each man to do his own work, creating an unnatural situation in the modern world. But the loss of the “natural” rhythm of work, each man in living contact with the earth, is a loss which is caused by something more basic than industrialization: the cause is in the heart of the man—even the simple man, even the peasant. For the earthy life to be regained, man must become aware that all nature lives, and lives even more fully than man—until man recaptures an awareness of the living cosmos. Calm, beautiful, subservient and idyllic nature will never be able to shock man into an awareness of its power-in-living; man can only become aware through a direct confrontation with the power, the power which challenges man in a veritable struggle for survival, the power which reduces man to his most essential being to struggle directly with the earth—no intervening instruments or intermediaries—and then, only then, can man even begin to know his own kinship with the earth; only then can he once again open himself to the wonder that is nature, the mystery that is life.

Lawrence's predilection for instinct and intuition, coupled with his wide reading of mythology and anthropology, lead him quite naturally to the dark god of primitive instinct, Dionysus. His sympathy for the “dark” often shows up in his choice of words; in passage after passage after passage we see “dark,” “secret,” “mystery,” or some variety of “closed,” as in the following:

The wood was silent, still, and secret … full of the mystery of eggs and half-opened buds, half-unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened naked and dark. …²¹

And of course “dark,” “secret,” etc., are appropriate to Lawrence's interest in the workings of the unconscious mind; we remember his statement that “My known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest.”

Giono, too, favors darkness, preferring to draw his scenes at night; for instance, every major event in Le Chant du Monde occurs at night. Such a significant scene occurs when, with the first glimmering of spring, the life of the town and of the people is reawakened; Antonio, the man of the river, and Matelot, the man of the forest, decide to go to a tavern and get drunk. While they are there Antonio dances to the guitar music played by a young girl; outside the first spring night is filled with boys and girls playing games of love, and with men and women somewhat more in earnest. A young woman bursts into the tavern, laughing and asking to be hidden, then dashes out again hotly pursued by Antonio. The joyful chase leads to the town square, where an ancient spring fertility ritual is being enacted.

Le grand amour se préparait.

Les bouviers de Maudru avaient apporté au milieu de la place la mère du blé. C'était une enorme gerbe de veux blé presque noir de paille avec encore sa chevelure blonde. La vielle gerbe faite de toutes les dernières javelles des champs, on l'avait habillée de trois jupes de femme, d'un gros tourillon d'avoine, et elle était là, enciente du labeur des hommes, avec son ventre pesant de graines, ses seins de paille, sa vielle tête d'épis. Les boeufs des attelages la reniflaient et frappaient du sabot dans la boue. Ils faisaient crier les jougs en secouant leurs cous de bronze. Ils essayaient de se détourner pour fuir en entrainant les charrettes.

Antonio s'arrêta.

Un bouvier avait pris une torche de lavande. Il souleva les jupes de la mére du blé. Il se mit à lui faire l'amour pardessous avec sa torche enflammée et soudain elle s'embrasa. Le ronflement des flammes, le crépitement des épis qui éclataient le gémissement de la paille serrée dans le corps des jupes couvrit les hurlements de flueve. La lumière s'élargit sous le ciel bas comme une moisson mûre. Les hommes criaient:

—Blé du feu! Blé du feu!

La femme de paille se tordait sur le brasier de son ventre.

Antonio s'approcha de la femme de chair, celle qu'on pouvait saisir par sa nuque claire sous le cheveux noirs. Elle comprit qu'il venait. Elle fit deux pas de côté comme pour la danse. Il fit deux pas de côté. Elle s'avanca. Il s'avanca. Un remous la porta du côté des ormes. Il se glissa du côté des ormes. Elle était hors de la foule, à la lisière de l'ombre. Il marcha vers elle. Elle l'attendait, elle courut à reculons.

—Je t'attraperait, dit Antonio.

—Oui, dit-elle.

Et ils s'élancerent vers les ruelles d'ombre.²²

Giono laces his nights with fire elsewhere, too; Bobi is killed at night, by lightning, in Que Ma Joie Demeure; Antonio and Matelot burn Maudru's farm in Le Chant du Monde; the villagers in Colline fight the fire which threatens their lives; and the great feast in Que Ma Joie Demeure is dominated by the fire which, though threatened by a storm, is kept alive by the men for the cooking of the food. Giono extends the imagery of fire into the heat of the blood of his characters; we are reminded of Lawrence's frequent, indeed sometimes excessive, insistence of the primacy of the “blood-intellect.”

In his novels Lawrence presents the troubled and frustrated characters who have either lost the Dionysian awareness or who are in constant turmoil from fighting against it as it irrepressibly surges up again and again; characters in the industrial crushing of the blood-intellect who are seeking, some consciously, some unconsciously, to retain or renew some vestige of the vital life of the lower self. Giono, on the other hand, presents characters who are involved with nature, who know the world of nature intimately. They have not lost their awareness of the union with the eternity of the earth and its renewal. Giono's world is dominated by life which is a struggle, where vital man pits his strength against others and unites with nature both by a struggle with its elements and in a unity with its strengths. Here the struggle is the very presence of joyful acceptance and total affirmation of both the joy and the pain of life. In Le Chant du Monde, Antonio knows the life around him intimately, as is revealed by his ability to interpret the tremblings of a tree as portents of danger:

Antonio toucha le chêne. Il écouta dans sa main les tremblements de l'arbre. C'était un vieux chêne plus gros qu'un homme de la montagne, mais il était a la belle pointe d'ile des geais, juste dans la venue du courant et, déjà, la moitié de ses racines sortaient de l'eau.

—Ca va? demanda Antonio.

L'arbre ne s'arrêtait pas de trembler.

—Non, dit Antonio, ça n'a pas l'air d'aller.

Il flatta doucement l'arbre avec sa longue main.²³

The sensuous identification of man with nature occurs also in the Brangwen men of Lawrence's The Rainbow.

They knew intercourse between heaven and earth … Feeling the pulse and body of the soil … they took the udder of the cows, the cows yielded milk and pulse against the hands of the men … So much warmth and generating and pain and death did they know in their blood, earth and sky and beast and green plants, so much exchange and interchange they had with these that they lived full and surcharged, their senses full fed, their faces always turned to the heat of the blood …²⁴

In his search for men and places (both fictional and literal) where “blood-knowledge” is supreme, Lawrence goes from the coal mining district of Nottinghamshire to the mountains of Mexico and from the rather autobiographical Sons and Lovers (1913) to the explicitly mythical The Man Who Died (1931). Between these two the range extends from The Rainbow (1915) and Women in Love (1920), with their characters in search of complete and spontaneous being, to the symbolic man-animal identification in The Fox (1923), to the undaunted animal in St. Mawr, with its broad references both to the ancient Welsh magic hinted at by the name and vocalized by the Welsh groom Lewis in the confession of his beliefs to Mrs. Witt, and with the further appeal to mythology of the different kind inherent in the Indian servant Phoenix and the concluding trip to the New Mexican desert. Lawrence's own travels and resultant books extend from Mornings in Mexico (1927) to Etruscan Places (1932), and, though The Plumed Serpent (1926) deals with an attempted revival of the old Mexican gods, Lawrence's own god, being within, found itself expressed best when the setting was Lawrence country, the Nottinghamshire of The Rainbow and Women in Love.

The barbaric religion of The Plumed Serpent is the result of the almost total unleashing, in that novel, of the potential chaos inherent in the Dionysian mode. Here the dark god is dressed in “a sinister and lustrous coat pleasing the aesthetic … sense—symbolically, the skin of a snake. His god could then appear fearful and strange and mystical.”²⁵ The trouble is that here the destructive energy of human sacrifice has no creative issue; the flowing of the blood within becomes the spilling of the blood without; the literal death leads to no symbolic rebirth. For Lawrence, the transformation had to be within; any outward ritual or action could be only the evidence, not the cause, of inner renewal. Renewal must come through a realization of the power of life, potentially both destructive and creative; it must come from a realization that a world of rigid order whose prime virtue is security also requires the concomitant stasis of sterility, but that the opposite explosion of energy can both create and destroy. Recognition of this dual character of energy must be followed by an affirmation, a celebration, of that energy in both its aspects. The Dionysian world, more dangerous than the Apollonian, is also more vital and more exciting. The flux in life, the alternate tugs of Apollo and Dionysus, are revealed in both the action and the style of scenes such as Ursula's confrontation with the horses in The Rainbow.

As Ursula walks through the rainy October afternoon, confused within because of her pregnancy and her mixed feelings toward the unborn child's father, she becomes aware of the tug of security in the presence of flux.

She must beat her way back through all this fluctuation, back to stability and security.²⁶

In the struggle which ensues, as long as Ursula's will and desire for security are dominant, the sentences are short, clipped and authoritative.

Suddenly she knew there was something else. Some horses were looming in the rain not near yet. But they were going to be near. She continued her path, inevitably.²⁷

Ursula's will is still dominant in her desire to regain peace, security, and stability, but the world of flux and change and power present in the horses is not to be escaped easily. The horses draw together into a clump before her, and she begins to know them in their power. As she does, the language shifts to longer and more excited sentences filled with bounding words:

In a sort of lightning of knowledge their movement traveled through her, the quiver and strain of their powerful flanks as they burst before her and drew on, beyond … She was aware of their breasts gripped, clenched narrow in a grip that never relaxed, she was aware of their red nostrils flaming with long endurance, and of their haunches, so rounded, so massive, pressing, pressing, pressing to burst the grip upon their breasts, pressing forever till they went mad, running against the walls of time, and never bursting free.²⁸

She does not submit to them; in a supreme effort of her will she escapes over a hedge and is safe; the walk home is once again dominated by short, terse sentences indicative of the calmness she finds in stability and isolation. But Ursula's nature is not fitted to this rigidity, and her vision of the rainbow is fused through with the hoped-for unity of the cosmos in a new day where the pain and the pleasure stand celebrated together.

The style of Giono's fiction draws an even sharper distinction between the rigidity of individual order and the violent flux which is nature.

In Que Ma Joie Demeure, when Bobi comes to be aware of himself as an individual who can suffer; when he individualizes himself and seeks fulfillment in his individuality, he quickly dies. His interior dialogue is divided from the world around him and argues the impossibility of joy. Early in the novel he had said that life is a mixture of joy and sorrow: now refusing to accept their simultaneity, one of his voices denies the possibility of joy while the other argues its necessity for hope, hope for the presence of joy in the annihilation of sorrow. The denying voice speaks in clipped sentences, in individual statements with the weight of authority which refuses argument. The voice actually admits the possibility of joy and defines it, but this is not what Bobi now hopes for. The voice defines man's possibility as desire, tells Bobi how joy is possible (though denying the possibility) and flatly states that permanence does not exist. Bobi does not recognize how the truth spoken by the voice is present around him; in the description of the storm which follows, the nature of existence is presented as defined by the voice; the description is not terse or pointed, but wildly excited, the emphasis being upon unity in destruction.

Allons, ne fais pas le fier. Crois-moi quand je te le dis. Rien ne peut s'ajouter à toi. Tu es seul depuis que te es né. Tu es né pour ça. Si la joie existait, mon pauvre veux, si elle pouvait entrer dans ton corps pour faire l'addition, tu serrais tellement grand, que le monde éclaterait en poussière. Désirer. Voilà tout ce que tu es capable toimême. Rien ne demeure. Si peu qu'une chose soit arrêtée, elle meurt et elle s'enfonce d'un seul coup a l'endroit où elle est immobile comme un fer rouge dans la niege. Il n'y a pas de joie.²⁹

But a moment later when the voices have ceased briefly, the description of the earth transforms these statements: At first the description, singling in on Bobi, continues in the same broken style, but when the earth and sky are described as united the style changes; it begins to roll in longer and more flashing sentences as the description switches to an emphasis on the unity of the cosmos:

Plus que des embruns d'eau, de la fumée, des forces huileuses qui traversaient la pluie en jetant de l'ombre comme le passage d'un oiseau; la magie de la foudre même ne pouvait pas départager la terre de l'eau. Les cent formes de la foudre: la roue, le clou, l'arbre! qui se plante dans la terre, lancé par le ciel, a qui rien ne résiste, qui fait tout trembler par ses feuillages et ses racines; l'oiseau de feu, la pierre, la cloche, l'éclatement du monde!³⁰

Then comes the line which elucidates the voice's previous statement about joy and the destruction of the world:

Et tout se déchire, tout se voit d'un seul coup: le fond du ciel et le fond de la terre, millions de torrents, de fleuves, de rivières, de ruisseaux d'or; millions de vallés, de gouffres, d'abîmes, de cavernes d'ombres—au clin de l'oeil, puis tout s'éteint—le serpent, la flèche, la corde, le fouet, le rire, les dents, la morsure, la blessure, le ruissellment, le sang, toutes les formes de la foudre!³¹

The destruction of the world is the destruction of the world as something apart from men; the very phrases describing the violence of the rending apart of the earth link various aspects of the earth with each other. Here has evolved the unity which is the Dionysian.

Giono's characters come from his native Provence, from among the peasants, providing a fit setting for scenes such as the one just above. Still close to the earth because of their agricultural activities, these people are, for Giono, the ones most likely to be open to the suggestion of wonder in the cosmos; they retain a spark of man's close affinity with the flux of the natural world. Thus, when an acrobat like Bobi, a creature with almost magical powers, appears, they are open to his suggestions for recapturing and reaffirming man's vital link with the earth in a song of joy and sorrow.

Giono had found a place; Lawrence never stopped searching for one, and though he never found it, the country of his own birth produces those characters who most nearly approach a Dionysian awareness. True, he ranges two continents, but his descriptions of other peoples tend to be colored by his hopes rather more than by his observations. And in the English novels, though some of the characters move freely in London society, Lawrence's sympathy is clearly not with that society. His characters are not the peasants of Giono; his setting is rarely agricultural, but nature (and particularly nature in its culmination, the flower), is never far removed from his most central scenes. Both Lawrence and Giono recognize the duality of nature—its savagery and its beauty—and both ultimately affirm that duality. The works of both involve the elements of the Dionysian listed by Nietzsche in The Will to Power:

The word Dionysian expresses: a constraint to unity, a soaring above personality, the commonplace, society, actuality, and above the abyss of the ephemeral: the passionately painful sensation of superabundance in darker, fuller and more fluctuating conditions: an ecstatic saying of Yea to the collective character of existence, as that which remains the same and equally mighty and joyous throughout all change: the great pantheistic sympathy with pleasure and pain, which declares even the most terrible and questionable qualities of existence good, and sanctifies them: the eternal will to procreation, fruitfulness, and to recurrence: the feeling of unity in regard to the necessity of creating and annihilating.³²

Lawrence and Giono in their respective ways have taken their places among the cortège of the dark god.

Notes

1. Lewis Richard Farnell, The Cults of the Greek States (Oxford: the Clarendon Press, 1909), V, 122.

2. Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, trans. Rosemary Sheed (London and New York: Sheed & Ward, 1958), 426.

3. Erwin Rohde, Psyche, trans. W. B. Hillis (New York: Harcourt Brace, & Co., Inc., 1925), 426.

4. Friedrich Nietzsche, Die Geburt der Tragodie aus dem Geiste der Musik, Werke in Drei Banden (Munich: Carl Hanser Verlag, 1955), I, 88.

5. Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo, ibid., II, 110.

6. Albert Camus, The Rebel, trans. Anthony Bower (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1954), 65-66.

7. D. H. Lawrence, “Pan in America,” Phoenix, the Posthumous Papers of D. H. Lawrence, ed. Edward D. McDonald (New York: the Viking Press, 1936), 23.

8. Ibid., 25.

9. D. H. Lawrence, “Democracy,” Phoenix, 712.

10. Ibid.

11. Ibid.

12. Ibid., 714-715.

13. D. H. Lawrence, Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays (Philadelphia: The Centaur Press, 1925), 214.

14. Lawrence, “Democracy,” Phoenix, 715.

15. D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse (New York: The Viking Press, 1932), 76-77.

16. D. H. Lawrence, Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious (New York: T. Seltzer, 1921), 85.

17. Lawrence, Apocalypse, 41.

18. Eugene Goodheart, The Utopian Vision of D. H. Lawrence (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1963), 48.

19. Ibid., 55.

20. Lawrence, Psychoanalysis, 49.

21. Alan Reynolds Thompson, “D. H. Lawrence: Apostle of the Dark God,” American Bookman, 73 (July, 1931), 493.

22. Jean Giono, Le Chant du Monde (Paris: Gallimard, 1934), 255-256.

23. D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow (New York: Modern Library, 1922), 2.

24. Giono, Le Chant du Monde, 9.

25. Thompson, “Apostle of the Dark God,” 496.

26. Lawrence, The Rainbow, 459.

27. Ibid.

28. Ibid., 460.

29. Jean Giono, Que Ma Joie Demeure (Paris: Grasset, 1935), 485.

30. Ibid., 486.

31. Ibid.

32. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power, quoted in Jack Lindsay, Dionysus, Nietzsche contra Nietzsche (London: The Fanfrolico Press, 1928), 106.