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.
D. H. LAWRENCEAnd besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place – even the butterfly.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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She was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets,unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
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.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
We fucked a flame into being.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
As we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction
D. H. LAWRENCE -
It is a fine thing to establish one’s own religion in one’s heart, not to be dependent on tradition and second-hand ideals. Life will seem to you, later, not a lesser, but a greater thing.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
A man could no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Never trust the teller, trust the tale. The proper function of a critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
That’s the place to get to – nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world’s somewheres, into our own nowhere.
D. H. LAWRENCE







