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.
D. H. LawrenceThe Spanish wine, my God, it is foul, catpiss is champagne compared, this is the sulphurous urination of some aged horse.
D. H. LawrenceOh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was made personal, merely personal feeling. This is what is the matter with us: we are bleeding at the roots because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars. Love has become a grinning mockery because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the Tree of Life and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilized vase on the table.
D. H. LawrenceIt is all a question of sensitiveness. Brute force and overbearing may make a terrific effect. But in the end, that which lives by delicate sensitiveness. If it were a question of brute force, not a single human baby would survive for a fortnight. It is the grass of the field, most frail of all things, that supports all life all the time. But for the green grass, no empire would rise, no man would eat bread: for grain is grass; and Hercules or Napoleon or Henry Ford would alike be denied existence.
D. H. Lawrence