Nobody knows you. You don’t know yourself. And I, who am half in love with you, What am I in love with? My own imaginings?
D. H. LAWRENCEThe human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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I fear my enthusiasm flags when real work is demanded of me.
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But the act, called the sexual act, is not for the depositing of seed. It is for leaping off into the unknown, as from a cliff’s edge, like Sappho into the sea.
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For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.
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Obscenity only comes in when the mind despises and fears the body, and the body hates and resists the mind.
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Give up bearing children and bear hope and love and devotion to those already born.
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What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.
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Those that go searching for love only make manifest their own lovelessness, and the loveless never find love, only the loving find love, and they never have to seek for it.
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There is no pornography without a secrecy.
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Perhaps only those people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the world.
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The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love.
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Every true artist is the salvation of every other. Only artists produce for each other a world that is fit to live in.
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They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women.
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Their whole life depends on spending money, and now they’ve got none to spend. That’s our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out.
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There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.
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How she hated words, always coming between her and her life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the live-sap out of living things.
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If a woman hasn’t got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she’s a dry stick as a rule.
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Things men have made with wakened hands, and put soft life into are awake through years with transferred touch, and go on glowing for long years.
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The novel is the one bright book of life. Books are not life. They are only tremulations on the ether. But the novel as a tremulation can make the whole man alive tremble.
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There’s lots of good fish in the sea, maybe, but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you’re not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.
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Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe. The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass.
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She was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte.
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I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.
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That’s how women are with me said Paul. They want me like mad but they don’t want to belong to me.
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One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it, and the journey is always towards the other soul.
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She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died.
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One could laugh at the world better if it didn’t mix tender kindliness with its brutality.
D. H. LAWRENCE