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.
D. H. LAWRENCEBut 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.
D. H. LAWRENCEIf I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.
D. H. LAWRENCEI never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
D. H. LAWRENCEWhat liars poets and everybody were! They made one think one wanted sentiment. When what one supremely wanted was this piercing, consuming, rather awful sensuality.
D. H. LAWRENCELife is ours to be spent, not to be saved.
D. H. LAWRENCEMan is a mistake. He must go.
D. H. LAWRENCEWe’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
D. H. LAWRENCEVitally, the human race is dying. It is like a great uprooted tree, with its roots in the air. We must plant ourselves again in the universe.
D. H. LAWRENCEThey 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. LAWRENCEFor God’s sake, all of you, say spiteful things about me, then I shall know I mean something to you. Don’t say surgaries, or I’m done.
D. H. LAWRENCEOnly youth has a taste of immortality.
D. H. LAWRENCEAll 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. LAWRENCEOne could laugh at the world better if it didn’t mix tender kindliness with its brutality.
D. H. LAWRENCEMankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.
D. H. LAWRENCEWhen 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. LAWRENCEIf a woman hasn’t got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she’s a dry stick as a rule.
D. H. LAWRENCE