Quotes from D.H. Lawrence

Paul was treated to dazzling descriptions of all kinds of flower-like ladies, most of whom lived like cut blooms in William's heart, for a brief fortnight.

Then there's the sort that puts you out before you really "come," and go on writhing their loins till they bring themselves off against your thighs. But they're mostly the Lesbian sort. It's astonishing how Lesbian women are, consciously or unconsciously. Seems to me they're nearly all Lesbian.

I count it a mistake of our mistaken democracy, that every man who can read print is allowed to believe that he can read all that is printed. I count it a misfortune that serious books are exposed in the public market, like slaves exposed naked for sale. But there we are, since we live in an age of mistaken democracy, we must go through with it.

Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body, which had been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem to ripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable.

He was, in some paralyzing way, conscious of his own defenselessness, though he had all the defense of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day.

For some things, said his aunt, it was a good thing Paul was ill that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother. Paul

Those who go searching for love only find their own lovelessness. But the loveless never find love; only the loving find love, and they never have to search for it.

Well, there it was: fated like the rest of things! It was rather awful, but why kick?

Some sort of perversity in our souls makes us not want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that.

When I talk to you, I do not look at you, often, for, can you understand, I do not talk to your eyes, though they are dark and fine, nor to your ears, hidden under a graceful toss of silky hair - but to you away inside, beyond.

So long as you don't feel life's paltry, and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or unhappiness.

She's had no love. No! - Well, you must make up to her.

He hated you for what you said: that his tubified art is sentimental and self-important.

That was all her prayer—not for his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours, she thought and prayed for him.

You, you might marry, a man who would not pour himself out like fire before you.

It's what endures through one's life that matters; my own life matters to me, in its long continuance and development. But what do the occasional connections matter? And the occasional sexual connections especially! If people don't exaggerate them ridiculously, they pass like the mating of the birds. And so they should. What does it matter? It's the life-long companionship that matters. It's the living together from day to day, not the sleeping together once or twice.

They want me in Lime Street on Monday week, mother, he cried, his eyes blazing, as he read the letter. Mrs Morel felt everything go silent inside her. ... It never occurred to him that she might be more hurt of his going away, than glad of his success.

And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar, she thought of her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers.

To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our effort—to live effortless, a kind of conscious sleep—that is very beautiful, I think—that is our after-life-our immortality.

My lad, she said, they're very wise. They know they've only got to flatter your vanity, and you press up to them like a dog that has its head scratched. Well, they can't go on scratching for ever, he replied. And when they've done, I trot away. But one day you'll find a string round your neck, that you can't pull off, she answered.

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 habits, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now 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.

She laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must practise jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash into the face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite still. ... He seemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it.

He brought her forgetmenots. And again his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand, used with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She was perfectly happy.

There was about him a candour, and gentleness, which made the women trust him. He understood.