D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.
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You don't want to love - your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere.
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Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.
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Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.
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Men! The only animal in the world to fear.
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I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.
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Behold then Septimus Dodge returning to Dodge-town victorious. Not crowned with laurel, it is true, but wreathed in lists of things he has seen and sucked dry. Seen and sucked dry, you know: Venus de Milo, the Rhine or the Coliseum: swallowed like so many clams, and left the shells.
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The war is dreadful. It is the business of the artist to follow it home to the heart of the individual fighters - not to talk in armies and nations and numbers - but to track it home.
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I shall always be a priest of love.
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The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?
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There is only one thing that a man really wants to do, all his life; and that is, to find his way to his God, his Morning Star, salute his fellow man, and enjoy the woman who has come the long way with him.
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If a woman's got nothing but her fair fame to feed on, why, it's thin tack, and a donkey would die of it!
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Sex is the one thing you cannot really swindle; and it is the centre of the worst swindling of all, emotional swindling.... Sex lashes out against counterfeit emotion, and is ruthless, devastating against false love.
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The dead don't die. They look on and help.
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One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.
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When one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.
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Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spiraling round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpassed them all, and left them tiny and daunted. So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core of nothingness, and yet not nothing.
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Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.
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The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.
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The business of art is to reveal the relation between man and his environment.
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The Christian fear of the pagan outlook has damaged the whole consciousness of man.
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Loud peace propaganda makes war seem imminent.
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But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
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The American grips himself, at the very sources of his consciousness, in a grip of care: and then, to so much of the rest of life, is indifferent. Whereas, the European hasn't got so much care in him, so he cares much more for life and living.