Zitat des Tages von D. H. Lawrence:
Oh the innocent girl in her maiden teens knows perfectly well what everything means.
The proper study of mankind is man in his relation to his deity.
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.
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.
Literature is a toil and a snare, a curse that bites deep.
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.
Ours is an excessively conscious age. We know so much, we feel so little.
My whole working philosophy is that the only stable happiness for mankind is that it shall live married in blessed union to woman-kind - intimacy, physical and psychical between a man and his wife. I wish to add that my state of bliss is by no means perfect.
The true artist doesn't substitute immorality for morality. On the contrary, he always substitutes a finer morality for a grosser one.
It's bad taste to be wise all the time, like being at a perpetual funeral.
Don't be on the side of the angels, it's too lowering.
The only history is a mere question of one's struggle inside oneself. But that is the joy of it. One need neither discover Americas nor conquer nations, and yet one has as great a work as Columbus or Alexander, to do.
All vital truth contains the memory of all that for which it is not true.
California is a queer place in a way, it has turned its back on the world, and looks into the void Pacific. It is absolutely selfish, very empty, but not false, and at least, not full of false effort.
The essential function of art is moral. But a passionate, implicit morality, not didactic. A morality which changes the blood, rather than the mind.
The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.
The great mass of humanity should never learn to read or write.
The one woman who never gives herself is your free woman, who is always giving herself.
One never can know the whys and the wherefores of one's passional changes.
The cruelest thing a man can do to a woman is to portray her as perfection.
The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.
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.
It is a fine thing to establish one's own religion in one's heart, not to be dependent on tradition and second-hand ideals. Life will seem to you, later, not a lesser, but a greater thing.
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 mind can assert anything and pretend it has proved it. My beliefs I test on my body, on my intuitional consciousness, and when I get a response there, then I accept.
So long as you don't feel life's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or unhappiness.
Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.
There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.
The Moon! Artemis! the great goddess of the splendid past of men! Are you going to tell me she is a dead lump?
Sentimentalism is the working off on yourself of feelings you haven't really got.
Since obscenity is the truth of our passion today, it is the only stuff of art - or almost the only stuff.
One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it... and the journey is always towards the other soul.
I shall always be a priest of love.
Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!
Having achieved and accomplished love... man... has become himself, his tale is told.
If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.