Quote

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.

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
Thing
Quick
Swoop
Bridges
Dip
Turning
Arches
Circles
Pushes
Air
Bats
Upon
Bridge
Water
Circle
Light
Sudden
Parabola

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How I hate the attitude of ordinary people to life. How I loathe ordinariness! How from my soul I abhor nice simple people, with their eternal price list. It makes my blood boil.
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The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.
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The Sphinx-riddle. Solve it, or be torn to bits, is the decree.
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That which one cannot experience in daily life is not true for oneself.
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The modern pantheist not only sees the god in everything, he takes photographs of it.
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I hold that the parentheses are by far the most important parts of a non-business letter.
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Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!
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The novel is the highest example of subtle interrelatedness that man has discovered.
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Every profound new movement makes a great swing also backwards to some older, half-forgotten way of consciousness.
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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.
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The picture must all come out of the artist's inside, awareness of forms and figures... It is more than memory. It is the image as it lives in the consciousness, alive like a vision, but unknown.
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And can a man his own quietus make with a bare bodkin?
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A man must keep his earnestness nimble, to escape ridicule.
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The novel is the one bright book of life. Books are not life. They are only tremulations on the ether. But the novel as a tremulation can make the whole man alive tremble.
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I like to write when I feel spiteful it's like having a good sneeze.
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Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the cosmos.
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The elephant, the huge old beast, is slow to mate
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A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everyone.
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Away with all ideals. Let each individual act spontaneously from the forever incalculable prompting of the creative wellhead within him. There is no universal law.
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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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