THE FIRST BOOK I asked for when I became a reader at the Bodleian Library was Lady Chatterley’s Lover—a bizarre choice for a student about to embark on a thesis about formal satire from 1590 to 1650. This was an obscure subject and turned out to be an education in the characteristics of bad verse. So why start with D.H. Lawrence? I had read in Melbourne an expurgated version of the novel, and the fuss that was caused by its proscription. Of course my curiosity was aroused, but I hadn’t counted on the depth of my disappointment. I had no…