Quotes from D. H. Lawrence

Instead of her soul swaying with new life, it seemed to droop, to bleed, as if it were wounded.

The shame, the roused feeling of exposure acted on his brain, made him heavy, unutterably heavy.

She was uneasy, perturbed to her last fibre. She wanted to remain clear, with no touch on her. A wild instinct made her shrink away from any hands which might be laid on her.

The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting intensely, the thrill passed through her, she died in terror, and after the death, a great flame gushed up, obliterating her.

he was beginning to be himself. And now he wanted madly to be free to go on. A home, his work, and absolute freedom to move and to be, in her, with her, this was his passionate desire. He thought in a kind of ecstasy, living an hour of painful intensity.

And who should have the money, indeed, if not your wives? They have everything to do with the money. What idea have you, but to waste it! Women waste nothing--they couldn't if they tried, said Aaron Sisson.

?tii care-i problema ta cu toat? lumea, cu mine, cu tine, cu fiecare, inclusiv Op? Un egoism steril È™i st?tut care ne separ? de tot È™i de toate. Nu-i egocentrism. Egocentrismul reprezint? înc? un fel de instinct. E un egoism meschin, total È™i autoritar.

New Mexico was the greatest experience from the outside world that I have ever had. It certainly changed me forever. . . . The moment I saw the brilliant, proud morning shine high up over the deserts of Santa Fe, something stood still in my soul, and I started to attend.

Exactly, I will lay down the law for nobody, not even myself. The thought of death and the afterlife saves me from doing any more. . . . As the thought of Eternity helps me.

She was a strange, hostile, dominant thing.

But then he didn't want to remember, because she had been nothing to him then, and his nature revolted from remembering her as she was when she was nothing to him.

A bird doesn't feel sorry for itself in the winter.

Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.

Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.

I'll do my life work, sticking up for the love between man and woman.

The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.

I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.

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.

And this is the final meaning of work: the extension of human consciousness. The lesser meaning of work is the achieving of self-preservation.

If a novel reveals true and vivid relationships, it is a moral work, no matter what the relationships consist in. If the novelisthonours the relationship in itself, it will be a great novel.

The only history is a mere question of one's struggle inside oneself. But that is the joy of it. One need neither discover Americas nor conquer nations, and yet one has as great a work as Columbus or Alexander, to do.

Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.

The picture must all come out of the artist's inside, awareness of forms and figures... It is more than memory. It is the image as it lives in the consciousness, alive like a vision, but unknown.

Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art -- or almost the only stuff.