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Yea, Paris is a festive ton -- a festive Ton for all! Skate o'er on joy -- Thin crust of gilded, polished joy! What matters it if Hell's beneath?

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
Joy
Crust
Hell
Skate
Matter
Skates
Polished
Thin
Beneath
Paris
Festive
Matters
Gilded

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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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And all the time she felt the reflection of his hopelessness in her. She couldn't quite, quite love in hoplessness. And he, being hopeless, couldn't ever love at all.
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Men fight for liberty and win it with hard knocks. Their children, brought up easy, let it slip away again, poor fools. And their grandchildren are once more slaves.
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Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.
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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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I am part of the sun as my eye is of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea.
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Pornography is the attempt to insult sex, to do dirt on it.
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He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society or fear of oneself.
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Are you willing to be sponged out, erased, cancelled, made nothing? Are you willing to be made nothing? Dipped into oblivion? If not, you will never really change.
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It's bad taste to be wise all the time, like being at a perpetual funeral.
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She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes.
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I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies - thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us.
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Unless one decorates one's house for oneself alone, best leave it bare, for other people are walleyed.
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Sex is really only touch, the closest of all touch. And it's touch we're afraid of.
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The only history is a mere question of one's struggle inside oneself. But that is the joy of it. One need neither discover Americas nor conquer nations, and yet one has as great a work as Columbus or Alexander, to do.
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That's just what a woman is. She thinks she knows what's good for a man, and she's going to see he gets it and no matter if he's starving, he may sit and whistle for what he needs, while she's got him, and is giving him what's good for him.
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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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The east is not for me--the sensuous spiritual voluptuousness, the curious sensitiveness of the naked people, their black, bottomless, hopeless eyes.
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Democracy and equality try to denythe mystic recognition of difference and innate priority, the joy of obedience and the sacred responsibility of authority.
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The American grips himself, at the very sources of his consciousness, in a grip of care: and then, to so much of the rest of life, is indifferent. Whereas, the European hasn't got so much care in him, so he cares much more for life and living.
D. H. Lawrence