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. LAWRENCEUsed to all kinds of society, she watched people as one reads the pages of a novel, with a certain disinterested amusement.
More D. H. Lawrence Quotes
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They 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.
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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.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Recklessness is almost a man’s revenge on his woman.
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 -
I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts or my thoughts the result of my dreams.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
One sheds ones sickness in books- repeats and presents again ones emotions, to be master of them.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
I 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. LAWRENCE -
How she loved to listen when he thought only the horse could hear.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
If you could only tell them that living and spending isn’t the same thing! But it’s no good. If only they were educated to live instead of earn and spend, they could manage very happily.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
Vitally, 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. LAWRENCE -
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. LAWRENCE -
Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved.
D. H. LAWRENCE -
What 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. LAWRENCE -
He worked very hard, till nothing lived in him but his eyes.
D. H. LAWRENCE