Do not go into this expecting to get something out of it, political, scientific, or otherwise.
This book is a poem, immense, winding, dazzling, exasperating. Like Poe's "Eureka!", this book is subversive. It dangles the pretty psycho-physics or plexuses and ganglions only to keep your monkey mind distracted, so that he may trick your body, your blood, and your soul into seeing the beauty that the mind kills with its egoism and idealism.
The digressions are the clue to the whole: "We still have in us the power to discriminate between our own idealism, our own self-conscious will, and that other reality, our own true spontaneous self. Certainly we are so overloaded and diseased with ideas that we can't get well in a minute. But we can set our faces stubbornly against the disease, once we recognize it."
"It is the hour of the stranger. Let the stranger now enter the soul."
"To be alone with one's own soul. Not to be alone without my own soul, mind you. But to be alone with one's own soul! This, and the joy of it, is the real goal of love. My own soul, and myself. Not my ego, my conceit of myself. But my very soul. To be at one in my own self. Not to be questing any more. Not to be yearning, seeking, hoping, desiring, aspiring. But to pause, and be alone."
To be alone. To face the facts of reality and your own eternal ignorance. This is what Lawrence suggests you do. Be curious at your own risk.
A brief attempt, a necessary failure: Lawrence here points, again and again, to the quick and marrow of life, to that thing that simply persists in existence, that thing that all words fail to grasp, that thing that pushes out and reaches beyond idealism, that thing that is always here, always now, that constant thing, that beautiful, terrifying soul that huddles in a pretend fear among the mass of men--"I am I, the clue to the whole."
This book is a hearty soup, but beware: within lies a most unique and devastating poison. If you're lucky, and you manage to get through it all, you walk away bewildered but sure of a certain, incomprehensible glimmering... All the while, inside, pulsing within your blood, the poison acts. Eventually, if you're lucky, you'll find yourself strangely hollowed out, every cell devoured and transformed.
If you're interested in unanswerable questions, in life, in trees and babies and mamas and papas, come take a look. Maybe you'll see some light through those tight-squeezed lids.