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It is quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humor, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance.

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
Must
Created
Craving
Men
Poet
Poets
Creating
Reasonable
Humor
Performance
Quite
Driving
Sense
Performances
Sinister
True
Ridiculous
Forcing
Take
Blind
Posture

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The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.
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Every profound new movement makes a great swing also backwards to some older, half-forgotten way of consciousness.
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There is a brief time for sex, and a long time when sex is out of place. But when it is out of place as an activity there still should be the large and quiet space in the consciousness where it lives quiescent. Old people can have a lovely quiescent sort of sex, like apples, leaving the young quite free for their sort.
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There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.
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Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.
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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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For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.
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Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.
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To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.
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But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
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The peasants of Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and clean their loaf seems, so perfumed, as home-made bread used all to be before the war.
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The more scholastically educated a man is generally, the more he is an emotional boor.
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A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water.
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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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Now the only decent way to get something done is to get it done by somebody who quite likes doing it.
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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.
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They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.
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The mystery of the evening-star brilliant in silence and distance between the downward-surging plunge of the sun and the vast, hollow seething of inpouring night. The magnificence of the watchful morning-star, that watches between the night and the day, the gleaming clue to the two opposites.
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The fairest thing in nature, a flower, still has its roots in earth and manure.
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My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest, stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness—what old and hard-worked staleness, masquerading as the all-new!
D. H. Lawrence