Dh Lawrence Quotes

“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.”
― D.H. Lawrence, The Complete Poems of D.H. Lawrence

“...you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And there I will die smothered.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

“Should I, too, prefer the title of 'non-Jewish Jew'? For some time, I would have identified myself strongly with the attitude expressed by Rosa Luxemburg, writing from prison in 1917 to her anguished friend Mathilde Wurm:

What do you want with these special Jewish pains? I feel as close to the wretched victims of the rubber plantations in Putamayo and the blacks of Africa with whose bodies the Europeans play ball… I have no special corner in my heart for the ghetto: I am at home in the entire world, where there are clouds and birds and human tears.

An inordinate proportion of the Marxists I have known would probably have formulated their own views in much the same way. It was almost a point of honor not to engage in 'thinking with the blood,' to borrow a notable phrase from D.H. Lawrence, and to immerse Jewishness in other and wider struggles. Indeed, the old canard about 'rootless cosmopolitanism' finds a perverse sort of endorsement in Jewish internationalism: the more emphatically somebody stresses that sort of rhetoric about the suffering of others, the more likely I would be to assume that the speaker was a Jew. Does this mean that I think there are Jewish 'characteristics'? Yes, I think it must mean that.”
― Christopher Hitchens, Hitch 22: A Memoir

“You're always begging things to love you as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them -- 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.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

“I have a very great fear of love. It is so personal. Let each bird fly with its own wings, and each fish swim its own course.—Morning brings more than love. And I want to be true to the morning.”
― D.H. Lawrence, The Plumed Serpent

“Above all, for his merciless, contemptuous treatment of Clifford Chatterley, blown to bits in Flanders in 1918, Lawrence can be damned to hell. Damned but not banned.”
― Germaine Greer

“I would like to be a D.H. Lawrence character, living in one of his novels. The people I meet don’t even seem to have characters. And life seems so rich, when I look at it through his eyes, yet my own life very often appears sterile, like a bad patch of earth, as if nothing will grow there however hard I try.”
― Rachel Cusk, Outline

“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.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature

“All the other stuff, the love, the democracy, the floundering into lust, is a sort of by-play. The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted.”
― DH Lawrence

“It felt forbidden. As though he was a boy when I met him and not a man of 26.”
― Sasha Bristol, The Novelist's Wife: A Literary Romance

“She could no more escape the conviction that rhubarb was a herb of all the virtues than the modern generation can avoid the illusion that Lady Chatterley's Lover is great literature.”
― Adrian Bell, A Countryman's Spring Notebook

“O amor, disse o poeta, é toda a existência de uma mulher. E se observarmos por um momento Orlando escrevendo à sua mesa, devemos admitir que nunca houve mulher mais talhada para tal vocação. Como é mulher, e mulher bonita, e mulher na flor da vida, ela, sem dúvida, logo renunciará à pretensão de escrever e pensar e começará ao menos a pensar num guarda-caça (e desde que se limite a pensar num homem, ninguém objetará que uma mulher pense). E então ela lhe escreverá um bilhetinho (e desde que se limite a escrever bilhetinhos, ninguém tampouco objetará que uma mulher escreva) e marcará um encontro para o anoitecer de domingo, e o anoitecer de domingo chegará; e o guarda-caça assobiará debaixo de sua janela – tudo isso, é claro, faz parte da própria substância da vida, constituindo o único objeto possível da ficção.”
― Virginia Woolf, Orlando