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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

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D. H. Lawrence
Age: 45 †
Born: 1885
Born: January 1
Died: 1930
Died: January 1
Literary Critic
Novelist
Painter
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Translator
Writer
Eastwood
Nottinghamshire
David Herbert Lawrence
Lawrence H. Davison
D.H. Lawrence
D. H. Lorenss
D. G. Lourens
David Herbert Richards Lawrence
D. H. David Herbert Lawrence
Without
Sorry
Thing
Bird
Never
Saws
Life
Advice
Bough
Dead
Frozen
Small
Drop
Felt
Pity
Ever
Wild

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Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.
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She is my first, great love. She was a wonderful, rare woman - you do not know as strong, and steadfast, and generous as the sun. She could be as swift as a white whiplash, and as kind and gentle as warm rain, and as steadfast as the irreducible earth beneath us.
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A woman needn't be dragged down by her functions.
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A museum is not a first-hand contact: it is an illustrated lecture. And what one wants is the actual vital touch.
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I have lived among enough painters and around studios to have had all the theories - and how contradictory they are - rammed down my throat. A man has to have a gizzard like an ostrich to digest all the brass-tacks and wire nails of modern art theories.
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She wished some help would come from outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was terrible because it was insane. Civilized society is insane. Money and so-called love are its two great manias money a long way first. The individual asserts himself in his disconnected insanity in these two modes: money and love.
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It seems to me a purely lyric poet gives himself, right down to his sex, to his mood, utterly and abandonedly, whirls himself roundtill he spontaneously combusts into verse. He has nothing that goes on, no passion, only a few intense moods, separate like odd stars, and when each has burned away, he must die.
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Death is ... a travelling asunder into elemental chaos. And from the elemental chaos all is cast forth again into creation. Therefore death also is but a cul-de-sac, a melting-pot.
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An illusion which is a real experience is worth having.
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The horse, the horse! The symbol of surging potency and power of movement, of action.
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Never was an age more sentimental, more devoid of real feeling, more exaggerated in false feeling, than our own.
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The nice clean intimacy which we now so admire between the sexes is sterilizing. It makes neuters. Later on, no deep, magical sex-life is possible.
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When one jumps over the edge, one is bound to land somewhere.
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Primarily I am a passionately religious man, and my novels must be written from the depth of my religious experience.
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Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.
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At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio . . . Changing guard.
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Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.
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Only youth has a taste of immortality.
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Those 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.
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It grew late. Through the open door, stealthily, came the scent of madonna lilies, almost as if it were prowling abroad.
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