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David Herbert Lawrence Quotes

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David Herbert Lawrence
September 11, 1885 - March 2, 1930
Nationality: English
Category: Writer
Subcategory: English Writer

There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.


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.


For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.


Reason is a supple nymph, and slippery as a fish by nature. She had as leave give her kiss to an absurdity any day, as to syllogistic truth. The absurdity may turn out truer.


Be a good animal, true to your animal instincts.


I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.


I shall be glad when you have strangled the invincible respectability that dogs your steps.


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 Christian fear of the pagan outlook has damaged the whole consciousness of man.


The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.


One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.


Nothing that comes from the deep, passional soul is bad, or can be bad.


Tragedy is like strong acid - it dissolves away all but the very gold of truth.


The more I see of democracy the more I dislike it. It just brings everything down to the mere vulgar level of wages and prices, electric light and water closets, and nothing else.


The business of art is to reveal the relation between man and his environment.


It's bad taste to be wise all the time, like being at a perpetual funeral.


They say geniuses mostly have great mothers. They mostly have sad fates.


How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression.


Towns oftener swamp one than carry one out onto the big ocean of life.


The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.


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