The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connection were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anti-climax.
D.H. LawrenceThere's so much of you here with me, really, it's a pity you aren't all here.
D.H. LawrenceHe worked very hard, till nothing lived in him but his eyes.
D.H. LawrenceI 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.
D.H. LawrenceIf only there weren't so many other people in the world,' he said lugubriously.
D.H. LawrenceIf it be not true to me, What care I how true it be.. Though it be not true to thee, It's gay and gospel truth to me..
D.H. LawrenceMots clés life inspirational truth
And what's romance? Usually, a nice little tale where you have everything as you like it, where rain never wets your jacket and gnats never bite your nose, and it's always daisy-time.
D.H. LawrenceIf there is no love, what is there?" she cried, almost jeering.
"There is," he said, in a voice of pure abstraction, "a final me which is stark and impersonal and beyond responsibility. So there is a final you. And it is there I would want to meet you-not in the emotional loving plane-but there beyond, where there is no speech and no terms of agreement. There we are two stark, unknown beings, two utterly strange creatures, I would want to approach you, and you me. And there could be no obligation, because there is no standard for action there, because no understanding has been reaped from that plane. It is quite inhuman-so there can be no calling to book, in any form whatsoever-because one is outside the pale of all that is accepted, and nothing known applies. On can only follow the impulse, taking that which lies in front, and responsible for nothing, asked for nothing, giving nothing, only each taking according to the primal desire.
You see,’ he said, ‘I always imagine our being really happy with some few other people—a little freedom with people.’
She pondered for a moment.
‘Yes, one does want that. But it must happen. You can’t do anything for it with your will. You always seem to think you can force the flowers to come out. People must love us because they love us—you can’t make them.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But must one take no steps at all? Must one just go as if one were alone in the world—the only creature in the world?
Till she seemed to swoon, gradually her mind went, and she passed away, everything in her was melted down and fluid, and she lay still, become contained by him, sleeping in him as lightning sleeps in a pure, soft stone.
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