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In every great novel, who is the hero all the time? Not any of the characters, but some unnamed and nameless flame behind them all.
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
Behind
Unnamed
Novel
Nameless
Literature
Flame
Character
Flames
Great
God
Every
Hero
Time
Characters
Behinds
More quotes by D. H. Lawrence
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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But I like the feel of men on things, while they're alive. There's a feel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands, all of them.
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Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion.
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At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio . . . Changing guard.
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The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?
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There is only one thing that a man really wants to do, all his life and that is, to find his way to his God, his Morning Star, salute his fellow man, and enjoy the woman who has come the long way with him.
D. H. Lawrence
Beauty is a mystery. You can neither eat it nor make flannel out of it.
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That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic: invisibility, and the anaesthetic power to deaden my attention in your direction.
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Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.
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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.
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Not that the Red Indian will ever possess the broad lands of America. At least I presume not. But his ghost will.
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A book lives as long as it is unfathomed.
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There are three cures for ennui: sleep, drink and travel.
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That was the birth of sin. Not doing it, but KNOWING about it. Before the apple, [Adam and Eve] had shut their eyes and their minds had gone dark. Now, they peeped and pried and imagined. They watched themselves.
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The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.
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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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Death is ... a travelling asunder into elemental chaos. And from the elemental chaos all is cast forth again into creation. Therefore death also is but a cul-de-sac, a melting-pot.
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Money is our madness, our vast collective madness.
D. H. Lawrence
My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest, stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness—what old and hard-worked staleness, masquerading as the all-new!
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Marriage is the clue to human life, but there is no marriage apart from the wheeling sun and the nodding earth, from the strayingof the planets and the magnificence of the fixed stars.
D. H. Lawrence