We have come a long way since 1960 when the censor’s dead hand was lifted off the novel, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I must have got hold of a contraband copy; I was still at school when my youthful fingers trembled through its pages. I am not surprised that author; D.H. Lawrence first considered calling his novel Tenderness.
The lovemaking between Lady Chatterley and her gamekeeper lover Oliver Mellors was sensitively portrayed. The language used was matter of fact without intending to shock. The censors were right to lift the ban.
It was opportunity to treat lovemaking as the most pure and noble of human experiences. Instead the floodgates opened to reduce this most precious of gifts, that of procreation, to the depths of degeneracy.
Pornography has turned lovemaking into a display of semi-violent crude sex. It is as far removed from romantic love as it is possible to be. The scenes portrayed are often perverted, depraved and in graphic form similar to ancient visions of hell. Few can relate such activity to their own lives.
What happened to the inspiring nature of lovemaking; the quickened heart of love at first sight; a shy flowering of mutual attraction; the chemistry between two people we know exists but cannot fathom. Is the love that grows to a point where a partner’s life is more important than one’s own still recognised?
Pornography slammed its jackboot on the neck of mutual affection, togetherness, tenderness, shared spirits and ideals. Porn trampled on commitment, the concept of developing relationships through the most beautiful form of foreplay imaginable; the courting process. Pornography is what pig swill is to food.
Censored by the quackery of mockery are mutual discovery, the trials, troubles, hopes and disappointments of two people sharing one shadow. True lovemaking is a carnival of living for its purpose is life. Pornography represents the death of spiritual and physical romance; it drives a stake through its life-giving purpose.
It wasn’t the removal of censorship that let loose the backed-up sewer of pornography that flooded over our lives. It was our inability to separate the highest form of romance from the most debauched and degenerate of sex.
In a recent article I mentioned Elizabeth Browning’s poem: How do I Love Thee? It remains
That is the difference between animal rutting and romantic love: One lasts for a few minutes to leave a feeling of barrenness, the other lasts for centuries and leaves one with a sense of fulfilment.