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.
D. H. LAWRENCEThis is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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One sheds ones sickness in books- repeats and presents again ones emotions, to be master of them.
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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.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
A man could no longer be private and withdrawn. The world allows no hermits.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Money poisons you when you’ve got it, and starves you when you haven’t.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
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 -
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.
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 -
I love trying things and discovering how I hate them.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Their words were only accidents in the mutual silence.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
She thought she loved, she thought she was full of love.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
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.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
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–
D. H. LAWRENCE -
What the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
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.
D. H. LAWRENCE