Quotes from D.H. Lawrence

My shoes are made of Spanish leather, My socks are made of silk; I wear a ring on every finger, I wash myself in milk.

So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour Feeling your fingers go Like a rhythmic breeze Over my hair, and tracing my brows, Till I knew you not from a little wind:  Ã¢â'¬â€ I wonder now if God allows Us only one moment of his keys. If only then You could have unlocked the moon on the night, And I baptized myself in the light Of your love; we both have entered then the white Pure passion, and never again.

Cu tine nu comunic prin simÈ›uri, ci prin spirit. De asta nu ne putem iubi în înÈ›elesul comun. AfecÈ›iunea noastr? nu este dintre acelea pe care le întâlneÈ™ti la tot pasul. ?i totuÈ™i suntem muritori de rând, È™i a tr?i unul al?turi de cel?lalt ar fi cumplit, deoarece cu tine nu pot fi carnal È™i, È™tii tu, a vieÈ›ui de-a pururi mai presus de aceasta a muritorului de rând ar însemna s-o pierzi cu totul.

Money poisons you when you've got it, and starves you when you haven't.

Every individual should, by nature, have his extraordinary points. But nowadays, you may look for them with a microscope, they are so worn-down by the regular machine-friction of our average and mechanical days.

The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

And however one might sentimentalize it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connexions and subjections. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever.

He resented the intrusion, he cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom in life.

He felt that if he could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die.

She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come from outside. But in the whole world there was no help.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

You, and rule!" she said. "You don't rule, don't flatter yourself. You have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation.

You don't want to love—your eternal and abnormal craving is to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love, because you've got a shortage somewhere.

You are the call and I am the answer, You are the wish, and I the fulfillment, You are the night, and I the day. What else? it is perfect enough. It is perfectly complete, You and I, What more?? Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!

It's only when the ghastly mob-sleep, the dream helplessness of the mass psyche overcomes him, that he becomes completely base and obscene

The living self has one purpose only: to come into its own fullness of being.

It seems to me a wrong and bitter thing to do, to bring a child into this world.

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.

Like a great bog humanity swamped her, and she sank in, weak at the knees, filled with repulsion and fear of every person she met.

One's action ought to come out of an achieved stillness: not to be a mere rushing on.

It is very much easier to shatter prison-bars than to open undiscovered doors to life.

And these were the happy moments of her life now, when the children included the father in her heart.

He would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he wanted.

The physical sense of injustice is a dangerous feeling, once it is awakened. It must have outlet, or it eats away the one in whom it is aroused.