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Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.

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
Like
Sensual
Exquisite
Feathers
Rippling
Flames
Molten
Soft
Flapping
Points
Overlapping
Inside
Brilliance
Running
Melting

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The English people on the whole are surely the nicest people in the world, and everybody makes everything so easy for everyone else, that there is almost nothing to resist at all.
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I like to write when I feel spiteful it's like having a good sneeze.
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Only youth has a taste of immortality.
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Sacred love is selfless, seeking not its own. The lover serves his beloved and seeks perfect communion of oneness with her.
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Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.
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The mind is ashamed of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.
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The cruelest thing a man can do to a woman is to portray her as perfection.
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How can any man be free without a soul of his own, that he believes in and won't sell at any price?
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While the white man keeps the impetus of his own proud, onward march, the dark races will yield and serve, perforce. But let the white man once have a misgiving about his own leadership, and the dark races will at once attack him, to pull him down into the old gulfs.
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The old ideals are dead as nails--nothing there. It seems to me there remains only this perfect union with a woman--sort of ultimate marriage--and there isn't anything else.
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You have to have something vicious in you to be a creative writersomething old-adamish, incompatible to the ordinary world.
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And besides, look at elder flowers and bluebells-they are a sign that pure creation takes place - even the butterfly. But humanity never gets beyond the caterpillar stage -it rots in the chrysalis, it never will have wings.It is anti-creation, like monkeys and baboons.
D. H. Lawrence
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A book lives as long as it is unfathomed.
D. H. Lawrence
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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.
D. H. Lawrence
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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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I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.
D. H. Lawrence
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I hate the actor and audience business. An author should be in among the crowd, kicking their shins or cheering them on to some mischief or merriment.
D. H. Lawrence
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One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it... and the journey is always towards the other soul.
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In the ancient recipe, the three antidotes for dullness or boredom are sleep, drink, and travel. It is rather feeble. From sleep you wake up, from drink you become sober, and from travel you come home again. And then where are you? No, the two sovereign remedies for dullness are love or a crusade.
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I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade. It's amazing how it cheers one up to shred orange and scrub the floor.
D. H. Lawrence