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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.

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
Seeks
Lover
Beloved
Lovers
Seeking
Selfless
Sacred
Oneness
Perfect
Serves
Love
Communion

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Only in a novel are all things given full play.
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A man must keep his earnestness nimble, to escape ridicule.
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Once you abstract from this, once you generalize and postulate Universals, you have departed from the creative reality, and entered the realm of static fixity, mechanism, materialism.
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Nobody can have the soul of me. My mother has had, and nobody can have it again. Nobody can come into my very self again, and breathe me like an atmosphere.
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You don't want to be an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, so as to get a mental thrill out of them. It is allpurely secondary--and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism.
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Thought is a man in his wholeness, wholly attending.
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The word arse is as much god as the word face. It must be so, otherwise you cut off your god at the waist.
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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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Never trust the artist. Trust the tale. The proper function of the critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
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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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I can't do with mountains at close quarters - they are always in the way, and they are so stupid, never moving and never doing anything but obtrude themselves.
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If you try to nail anything down, in the novel, either it kills the novel, or the novel gets up and walks away with the nail.
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There are three cures for ennui: sleep, drink and travel.
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Homer was wrong in saying, Would that strife might pass away from among gods and men! He did not see that he was praying for the destruction of the universe.
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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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The elephant, the huge old beast, is slow to mate
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Men are free when they are obeying some deep, inward voice of religious belief. Obeying from within. Men are free when they belong to a living, organic, believing community, active in fulfilling some unfulfilled, perhaps unrealized purpose. Not when they are escaping to some wild west. The most unfree souls go west, and shout of freedom.
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Why were we driven out of Paradise? Why did we fall into this gnawing disease of unappeasable dissatisfaction? Not because we sinned. Ah, no. All the animals in Paradise enjoyed the sensual passion of coition. Not because we sinned. But because we got sex into our head.
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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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And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.
D. H. Lawrence