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All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity.
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
Seemed
Wrapped
Eternity
Blanket
Arms
Hopes
Sleep
Necessity
Woman
Gain
Given
Romance
Past
Gains
Would
Warm
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The Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.
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The nearer a conception comes towards finality, the nearer does the dynamic relation, out of which this concept has arisen, draw to a close. To know is to lose.
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I am only half there when I am ill, and so there is only half a man to suffer. To suffer in one's whole self is so great a violation, that it is not to be endured.
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But the effort, the effort! And as the marrow is eaten out of a man's bones and the soul out of his belly, contending with the strange rapacity of savage life, the lower stage of creation, he cannot make the effort any more.
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When I hear modern people complain of being lonely then I know what has happened. They have lost the cosmos.
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Give up bearing children and bear hope and love and devotion to those already born.
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The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.
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Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion.
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I believe that a man is converted when first he hears the low, vast murmur of life, of human life, troubling his hitherto unconscious self.
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It's hard to ravish a tin of sardines.
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Why does the thin grey strand Floating up from the forgotten Cigarette between my fingers, Why does it trouble me?
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It always seemed to me that men wore their beards, like they wear their neckties, for show.
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I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.
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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.
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We are so overwhelmed with quantities of books, that we hardly realise any more that a book can be valuable, valuable like a jewel, or a lovely picture, into which you can look deeper and deeper and get a more profound experience every time.
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Tragedy looks to me like man in love with his own defeat. Which is only a sloppy way of being in love with yourself.
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That's it! When you come to know men, that's how they are: too sensitive in the wrong place.
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At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio . . . Changing guard.
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Necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt the heaviest ore of the body into purity.
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Myth is an attempt to narrate a whole human experience, of which the purpose is too deep, going too deep in the blood and soul, for mental explanation or description.
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