There is nothing to save, now all is lost, but a tiny core of stillness in the heart like the eye of a violet.
D. H. LAWRENCEIt’s not art for art’s sake, it’s art for my sake.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself.
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All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity.
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That’s the place to get to – nowhere. One wants to wander away from the world’s somewheres, into our own nowhere.
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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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I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts or my thoughts the result of my dreams.
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A woman unsatisfied must have luxuries. But a woman who loves a man would sleep on a board
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Their words were only accidents in the mutual silence.
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Give up bearing children and bear hope and love and devotion to those already born.
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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.
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This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us.
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I love trying things and discovering how I hate them.
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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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If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Recklessness is almost a man’s revenge on his woman.
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Be sure your sins will find you out, especially if you’re married and her name’s Bertha.
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As we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction
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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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The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.
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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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And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place – even the butterfly.
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Used to all kinds of society, she watched people as one reads the pages of a novel, with a certain disinterested amusement.
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He worked very hard, till nothing lived in him but his eyes.
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We fucked a flame into being.
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I don’t want the corpses of flowers about me.
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You’re always begging things to love you, he said, as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them–
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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. LAWRENCE