If a woman hasn’t got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she’s a dry stick as a rule.
D. H. LAWRENCEThe 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.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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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.
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We fucked a flame into being.
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But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.
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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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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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Recklessness is almost a man’s revenge on his woman.
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If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.
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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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I would rather sit still in a state of peace on a stone than ride in the motor-car of a multi-millionaire and feel the peacelessness of the multi-millionaire poisoning me.
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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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I love trying things and discovering how I hate them.
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Never trust the teller, trust the tale. The proper function of a critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
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How she loved to listen when he thought only the horse could hear.
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I am part of the sun as my eye is of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea.
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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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A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.
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Only youth has a taste of immortality.
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The dead don’t die. They look on and help.
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He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society or fear of oneself.
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For 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.
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It’s not art for art’s sake, it’s art for my sake.
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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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What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.
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Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one’s history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.
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She was not herself–she was not anything. She was something that is going to be–soon–soon–very soon. But as yet, she was only imminent.
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One sheds ones sickness in books- repeats and presents again ones emotions, to be master of them.
D. H. LAWRENCE