Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father's house in Beldover, working and talking.

The journey of love has been rather a lacerating, if well-worth-it, journey.

Myth is an attempt to narrate a whole human experience, of which the purpose is too deep, going too deep in the blood and soul, for mental explanation or description.

I'd be ashamed to see a woman walking around with my name-label on her, address and railway station, like a wardrobe trunk.

The Moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the Moon that pulls the tides, and the Moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the Moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. . . . When we describe the Moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.

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.

Men always do leave off really thinking, when the last bit of wild animal dies in them.