D. H. Lawrence
D. H. Lawrence
David Herbert Richards Lawrencewas an English novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic and painter who published as D. H. Lawrence. His collected works, among other things, represent an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. In them, some of the issues Lawrence explores are emotional health, vitality, spontaneity and instinct...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth11 September 1885
heart men should
Men and women should stay apart, till their hearts grow gentle towards one another again.
soul
Nothing that comes from the deep, passional soul is bad, or can be bad.
knows
One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.
play given novel
Only in a novel are all things given full play.
strange absolutes
The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more.
husband wife unhappiness
The unhappiness of a wife with a good husband is much more devastating than the unhappiness of a wife with a bad husband.
firsts steps common
They wanted genuine intimacy, but they could not get even normally near to anyone, because they scorned to take the first steps, they scorned the triviality which forms common human intercourse.
men example subtle
The novel is the highest example of subtle interrelatedness that man has discovered.
men hands alive
But I like the feel of men on things, while they're alive. There's a feel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands, all of them.
literature vivid matter
If a novel reveals true and vivid relationships, it is a moral work, no matter what the relationships consist in. If the novelisthonours the relationship in itself, it will be a great novel.
people society individualism
I should like [people] to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness. and They only like to do the collective thing.
men australia perfection
I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.
black gold cypresses
Along the avenue of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices Of linen, go the chanting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .
men fire house
A house o' women is as dead as a house wi' no fire, to my thinkin'. I'm not a spider as likes to corner myself. I like a man about, if he's only something to snap at.