D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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They were evidently small men, all wind and quibbles, flinging out their chuffy grain to us with far less interest than a farm-wife feels as she scatters corn to her fowls.
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The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence.
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Now the only decent way to get something done is to get it done by somebody who quite likes doing it.
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I will wait and watch till the day of David at last shall be finished, and wisdom no more fox-faced, and the blood gets back its flame.
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Love is the hastening gravitation of spirit towards spirit, and body towards body, in the joy of creation.
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Humanity is less, far less than the individual, because the individual may sometimes be capable of truth, and humanity is a tree of lies.
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I have a very great fear of love. It is so personal. Let each bird fly with its own wings, and each fish swim its own course. Morning brings more than love. And I want to be true to the morning.
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To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.
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That is almost the whole of Russian literature: the phenomenal coruscations of the souls of quite commonplace people.
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Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, cancelled, made nothing? Are you willing to be made nothing? Dipped into oblivion? If not, you will never really change.
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Every new stroke of civilization has cost the lives of countless brave men, who have fallen defeated by the dragon, in their efforts to win the apples of the Hesperides, or the fleece of gold. Fallen in their efforts to overcome the old, half sordid savagery of the lower stages of creation, and win the next stage.
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The true self is not aware that it is a self. A bird, as it sings, sings itself. But not according to a picture. It has no idea of itself.
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Democracy and equality try to denythe mystic recognition of difference and innate priority, the joy of obedience and the sacred responsibility of authority.
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I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.
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It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and threads of consciousness in him and her had grown together into a tangled mass, till they could crowd no more, and the plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear.
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And to my lips' Bright crimson rim The passion slips, And down my slim White body drips The shining hymn.
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The novel is a perfect medium for revealing to us the changing rainbow of our living relationships. The novel can help us to live,as nothing else can: no didactic Scripture, anyhow. If the novelist keeps his thumb out of the pan.
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The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.
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Why, why are people all balls of bitter dust? Because they won't fall off the tree when they're ripe. They hang on to their old positions when the position is overpast, till they become infested with little worms and dry-rot.
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One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one.
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How to begin to educate a child. First rule: leave him alone. Second rule: leave him alone. Third rule: leave him alone. That is the whole beginning.
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Away with all ideals. Let each individual act spontaneously from the forever incalculable prompting of the creative wellhead within him. There is no universal law.
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For {she} had adopted the standard of the young: what there was in the moment was everything. And moments followed one another without necessarily belonging to one another.
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Hate's a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas onto life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas.