When I was on holiday in the UK this summer, me and my family paid a visit to the birth house of D.H. Lawrence at my request. I had read Lady Chatterley’s Lover once a number of years ago and couldn’t remember that much about it other than that I thought it was a bit weird and that I didn’t really like, but on a two-week trip deprived of any other literary value, I figured I’d take what I could get. The tiny museum and its enthusiastic guide rekindled my interest and inspired me to give Lawrence another try. After all, I’d come around to Virginia Woolf in a big way, so maybe Lawrence could win me over as well now that I had some more reading under my belt. I wasn’t without my reservations though; one word that I have often come across in connection to Lawrence was “misogyny.” Still, my aunt recommended The Rainbow to me and in the spirit of “well, when in Nottinghamshire,” I started reading it right away.