David Herbert Lawrence

David Herbert Lawrence

David Herbert Lawrence (11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation.

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Life is ours to be spent not to be saved.

Only in a novel are all things given full play.

The true artist doesn't substitute immorality for morality. On the contrary he always substitutes a finer morality for a grosser one.

The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate implicit morality not didactic. A morality which changes the blood rather than the mind.

Creation destroys as it goes throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death multiply itself million upon million rear up city upon city save every parasite alive until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.

When one jumps over the edge one is bound to land somewhere.

All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true.

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

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

I am in love - and my God it is the greatest thing that can happen to a man. I tell you find a woman you can fall in love with. Do it. Let yourself fall in love. If you have not done so already you are wasting your life.

One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.

God how I hate new countries: They are older than the old, more sophisticated, much more conceited, only young in a certain puerile vanity, more like senility than anything.

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.

Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.

The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?

How beautiful maleness is if it finds its right expression.

The American grips himself at the very sources of his consciousness in a grip of care: and then to so much of the rest of life is indifferent. Whereas the European hasn't got so much care in him so he cares much more for life and living.

Sex and beauty are inseparable like life and consciousness. And the intelligence, which goes with sex and beauty, and arises out of sex and beauty, is intuition.

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.

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