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.
D. H. LAWRENCEShe 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.
D. H. LAWRENCEThere is no pornography without a secrecy.
D. H. LAWRENCEThe world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.
D. H. LAWRENCELove is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life.
D. H. LAWRENCEPerhaps only those people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the world.
D. H. LAWRENCEShe thought she loved, she thought she was full of love.
D. H. LAWRENCEAs we all know, too much of any divine thing is destruction
D. H. LAWRENCEThe essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted.
D. H. LAWRENCEShe was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte.
D. H. LAWRENCEHow she hated words, always coming between her and her life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the live-sap out of living things.
D. H. LAWRENCEYou’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. LAWRENCEWhat the eye doesn’t see and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.
D. H. LAWRENCETheir whole life depends on spending money, and now they’ve got none to spend. That’s our civilization and our education: bring up the masses to depend entirely on spending money, and then the money gives out.
D. H. LAWRENCEThose that go searching for love only make manifest their own lovelessness, and the loveless never find love, only the loving find love, and they never have to seek for it.
D. H. LAWRENCEOne sheds ones sickness in books- repeats and presents again ones emotions, to be master of them.
D. H. LAWRENCENobody 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