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I will wait and watch till the day of David at last shall be finished, and wisdom no more fox-faced, and the blood gets back its flame.

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
Last
Watches
Deceit
Back
Watch
Faced
Gets
David
Blood
Flames
Shall
Till
Wisdom
Finished
Waiting
Bible
Foxes
Lasts
Wait
Flame

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Men and women aren't really dogs: they only look like it and behave like it. Somewhere inside there is a great chagrin and a gnawing discontent.
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[During the Renaissance] the Italians said, We are one in the Father: we will go back. The Northern races said, We are one in Christ, we will go on.
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The cosmos is a vast living body, of which we are still parts. The sun is a great heart whose tremors run through our smallest veins. The moon is a great nerve center from which we quiver forever. Who knows the power that Saturn has over us, or Venus? But it is a vital power, rippling exquisitely through us all the time.
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I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me. That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly, and my blood is part of the sea. There is not any part of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surfaces of the water.
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An illusion which is a real experience is worth having.
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I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.
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We ought to dance with rapture that we should be alive and in the flesh, and part of the living, incarnate cosmos.
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A man was like a child with his appetites. A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child he would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasant connection.
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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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Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.
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The love between man and woman is the greatest and most complete passion the world will ever see, because it is dual, because it is of two opposing kinds.
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The sense of wonder, that is our sixth sense.
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Now it is autumn and the falling fruit and the long journey towards oblivion. The apples falling like great drops of dew to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
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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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But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
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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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And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything As You Like It, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose and it's always daisy-time.
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In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations we have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.
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We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying and our strength leaves us, and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood, cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.
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There's lots of good fish in the sea...maybe...but the vast masses seem to be mackerel or herring, and if you're not mackerel or herring yourself, you are likely to find very few good fish in the sea.
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