D. H. Lawrence
I can't bear art that you can walk round and admire. A book should be either a bandit or a rebel or a man in the crowd.
The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.
I believe that a man is converted when first he hears the low, vast murmur of life, of human life, troubling his hitherto unconscious self.
Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the nightingale still will sing. Because it is neither preaching nor commanding nor urging. It is just singing. And in the beginning was not a Word, but a chirrup.
This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us. This makes us secret and rotten.
The only justice is to follow the sincere intuition of the soul, angry or gentle. Anger is just, and pity is just, but judgement is never just.
One could laugh at the world better if it didn't mix tender kindliness with its brutality.
A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification.
I believe a man is born first unto himself--for the happy developing of himself, while the world is a nursery, and the pretty things are to be snatched for, and pleasant things tasted; some people seem to exist thus right to the end. But most are born again on entering manhood; then they are born to humanity, to a consciousness of all the laughing, and the never-ceasing murmur of pain and sorrow that comes from the terrible multitudes of brothers.
It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.
One sheds one's sicknesses in books--repeats and presents again one's emotions, to be master of them.
The human being is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has got dozens.
Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.
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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