Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable sodding rotters, the flaming sods, the sniveling, dribbling, dithering palsied pulse-less lot that make up England today. They've got white of egg in their veins, and their spunk is that watery its a marvel they can breed. They can nothing but frog-spawn — the gibberers! God, how I hate them! God curse them, funkers. God blast them, wish-wash. Exterminate them, slime. I could curse for hours and hours — God help me.An ounce of Byronic vim is worth gallons and gallons of this weirdly stifled, tame blather: as if DHL can't quite let go of notions of respectabilty enough to actually yell. It reads like a vicar performing the idiom of 'swearing'. Or the pasty bravado of his letter to Blanche Jennings [9 October 1908]:
If I had my way, I would build a lethal chamber as big as the Crystal Palace, with a military band playing softly, and a Cinematograph working brightly; then I’d go out in the back streets and main streets and bring them in, all the sick, the halt, and the maimed; I would lead them gently, and they would smile me a weary thanks; and the band would softly bubble out the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’.The thing here is not the despicable ur-fascism of the sentiment, although that's obvious enough. It's the inability to rouse any properly diabolic force of expression. In a writer that's almost a worse sin. It's as if DHL has, sanctimoniously, decided to reserve 'fuck' only for purely sexual-descriptive purposes.