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The Near End Of The Street Was Rather Dark And Had Mostly Vegetable Shops. Abundance Of Vegetables - Piles Of White And Green Fennel, Like Celery, And Great Sheaves Of Young, Purplish, Sea-dust-coloured Artichokes . . . Long Strings Of Dried Figs, Mountains Of Big Oranges, Scarlet Large Peppers, A Large Slice Of Pumpkin, A Great Mass Of Colours And Vegetable Freshness. . . .

-D. H. Lawrence

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The Near End Of

D. H. Lawrence

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The Near End Of The Street Was Rather Dark And Had Mostly Vegetable Shops. Abundance Of Vegetables - Piles Of White And Green Fennel, Like Celery, And Great Sheaves Of Young, Purplish, Sea-dust-coloured Artichokes . . . Long Strings Of Dried Figs, Mountains Of Big Oranges, Scarlet Large Peppers, A Large Slice Of Pumpkin, A Great Mass Of Colours And Vegetable Freshness. . . .

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More From D. H. Lawrence

God Is Only A Great Imaginative Experience.

We Can Understand That The Fathers Of The Church In The East Wanted Apocalypse Left Out Of The New Testament. But Like Judas Among The Disciples, It Was Inevitable That It Should Be Included. The Apocalypse Is The Feet Of Clay To The Grand Christian Image. And Down Crashes The Image, On The Weakness Of These Very Feet. There Is Jesus--but There Is Also John The Divine. There Is Christian Love--and There Is Christian Envy. The Former Would "save" The World--the Latter Will Never Be Satisfied Till It Has Destroyed The World. They Are Two Sides Of The Same Medal.

O Pity The Dead That Are Dead, But Cannot Make The Journey, Still They Moan And Beat Against The Silvery Adamant Walls Of Life's Exclusive City.

It Seems To Me Absolutely True, That Our World, Which Appears To Us The Surface Of All Things, Is Really The Bottom Of A Deep Ocean: All Our Trees Are Submarine Growths, And We Are Weird, Scaly-clad Submarine Fauna, Feeding Ourselves On Offal Like Shrimps. Only Occasionally The Soul Rises Gasping Through The Fathomless Fathoms Under Which We Live, Far Up To The Surface Of The Ether, Where There Is True Air.

I Would Rather Sit Still In A State Of Peace On A Stone Than Ride In The Motor-car Of A Multi-millionaire And Feel The Peacelessness Of The Multi-millionaire Poisoning Me.

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 One Bright Book Of Life. Books Are Not Life. They Are Only Tremulations On The Ether. But The Novel As A Tremulation Can Make The Whole Man Alive Tremble.

The Love Between Man And Woman Is The Greatest And Most Complete Passion The World Will Ever See, Because It Is Dual, Because It Is Of Two Opposing Kinds.

Whatever A Human Being Makes And Makes Live, It Lives Because Of The Life He Puts Into It.

They Were Evidently Small Men, All Wind And Quibbles, Flinging Out Their Chuffy Grain To Us With Far Less Interest Than A Farm-wife Feels As She Scatters Corn To Her Fowls.

If A Woman Hasn't Got A Tiny Streak Of Harlot In Her, She's A Dry Stick As A Rule.

If You Try To Nail Anything Down, In The Novel, Either It Kills The Novel, Or The Novel Gets Up And Walks Away With The Nail.

If Only I Am Keen And Hard Like The Sheer Tip Of A Wedge Driven By Invisible Blows, The Rock Will Split, We Shall Come At The Wonder, We Shall Find The Hesperides.

Oh, For The Wonder That Bubbles Into My Soul.

The Journey Of Love Has Been Rather A Lacerating, If Well-worth-it, Journey.

A Woman Has To Live Her Life, Or Live To Repent Not Having Lived It.

When I Hear Modern People Complain Of Being Lonely Then I Know What Has Happened. They Have Lost The Cosmos.

The Weakness Of Modern Tragedy[is That] Transgression Against The Social Code Is Made To Bring Destruction, As Though The Social Code Worked Our Irrevocable Fate.

And Then She Realized That His Presence Was The Wall, His Presence Was Destroying Her. Unless She Could Break Out, She Must Die Most Fearfully, Walled Up In Horror. And He Was The Wall. She Must Break Down The Wall. She Must Break Him Down Before Her, The Awful Obstruction Of Him Who Obstructed Her Life To The Last. It Must Be Done, Or She Must Perish Most Horribly.

Yea, Paris Is A Festive Ton -- A Festive Ton For All! Skate O'er On Joy -- Thin Crust Of Gilded, Polished Joy! What Matters It If Hell's Beneath?

Where The Electron Behaves And Misbehaves As It Will, Where The Forces Tie Themselves Up Into Knots Of Atoms And Come United.

The Spirit Of The Place Is A Strange Thing. Our Mechanical Age Tries To Override It. But It Does Not Succeed. In The End The Strange, Sinister Spirit Of The Place, So Diverse And Adverse In Differing Places, Will Smash Our Mechanical Oneness Into Smithereens.

I'd Be Ashamed To See A Woman Walking Around With My Name-label On Her, Address And Railway Station, Like A Wardrobe Trunk.

As We All Know, Too Much Of Any Divine Thing Is Destruction

America Does To Me What I Knew It Would Do: It Just Bumps Me. The People Charge At You Like Trucks Coming Down On You -- No Awareness. But One Tries To Dodge Aside In Time. Bump! Bump! Go The Trucks. And That Is Human Contact.

Democracy And Equality Try To Denythe Mystic Recognition Of Difference And Innate Priority, The Joy Of Obedience And The Sacred Responsibility Of Authority.

I Like Relativity And Quantum Theories Because I Don't Understand Them And They Make Me Feel As If Space Shifted About Like A Swan That Can't Settle, Refusing To Sit Still And Be Measured; And As If The Atom Were An Impulsive Thing Always Changing Its Mind.

Away With All Ideals. Let Each Individual Act Spontaneously From The Forever Incalculable Prompting Of The Creative Wellhead Within Him. There Is No Universal Law.

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.

Why Were We Driven Out Of Paradise? Why Did We Fall Into This Gnawing Disease Of Unappeasable Dissatisfaction? Not Because We Sinned. Ah, No. All The Animals In Paradise Enjoyed The Sensual Passion Of Coition. Not Because We Sinned. But Because We Got Sex Into Our Head.

Whales In Mid-ocean, Suspended In The Waves Of The Sea Great Heaven Of Whales In The Waters, Old Hierarchies. And Enormous Mother Whales Lie Dreaming Suckling Their Whale-tender Young And Dreaming With Strange Whale Eyes Wide Open In The Waters Of The Beginning And The End.

Brute Force Crushes Many Plants. Yet The Plants Rise Again. The Pyramids Will Not Last A Moment Compared With The Daisy. And Before Buddha Or Jesus Spoke The Nightingale Sang, And Long After The Words Of Jesus And Buddha Are Gone Into Oblivion The Nightingale Still Will Sing. Because It Is Neither Preaching Nor Commanding Nor Urging. It Is Just Singing. And In The Beginning It Was Not A Word, But A Chirrup.

The Italians Are Not Passionate: Passion Has Deep Reserves. They Are Easily Moved, And Often Affectionate, But They Rarely Have Any Abiding Passion Of Any Sort.

Mankind Has Got To Get Back To The Rhythm Of The Cosmos.

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.

There Is The Unknown And The Unknowable Which Propounds All Creation. This We Cannot Love , We Can Only Accept It As A Term Of Our Own Limitation And Ratification. We Can Only Know That From The Unknown, Profound Desires Enter In Upon Us, And That The Fulfilling Of These Desires Is The Fulfilling Of Creation.

I Think Societal Instinct Much Deeper Than Sex Instinct — And Societal Repression Much More Devastating.

I Know The Greatness Of Christianity; It Is A Past Greatness.. I Live In 1924, And The Christian Venture Is Done.

I Shall Be Glad When You Have Strangled The Invincible Respectability That Dogs Your Steps.

Now It Is Autumn And The Falling Fruit And The Long Journey Towards Oblivion. The Apples Falling Like Great Drops Of Dew To Bruise Themselves An Exit From Themselves.

The World Of Men Is Dreaming, It Has Gone Mad In Its Sleep, And A Snake Is Strangling It, But It Can't Wake Up.

But Better Die Than Live Mechanically A Life That Is A Repetition Of Repetitions.

The Trains Roared By Like Projectiles Level On The Darkness, Fuming And Burning, Making The Valley Clang With Their Passage. They Were Gone, And The Lights Of The Towns And Villages Glittered In Silence.

Let Yourself Fall In Love. If You Have Not Done So Already, You Are Wasting Your Life.

Falling In Love

Mr Hemingway Does It Extremely Well. Nothing Matters. Everything Happens. One Wants To Keep Oneself Loose. Avoid One Thing Only: Gettng Connected Up. Don't Get Connected Up. If You Get Held By Anything, Break It. Don't Be Held. Break It, And Get Away. Don't Get Away With The Idea Of Getting Somewhere Else. Just Get Away, For The Sake Of Getting Away. Beat It! "well, Boy, I Guess I'll Beat It." Ah, The Pleasure In Saying That

I Am Part Of The Sun As My Eye Is Part Of Me. That I Am Part Of The Earth My Feet Know Perfectly, And My Blood Is Part Of The Sea. My Soul Knows That I Am Part Of The Human Race, My Soul Is An Organic Part Of The Great Human Race, As My Spirit Is Part Of My Nation. In My Own Very Self, I Am Part Of My Family.

The Whole Life-effort Of Man Is To Get His Life Into Direct Contact With The Elemental Life Of The Cosmos, Mountain Life, Cloud Life, Thunder Life, Air Life, Earth Life, Sun Life. To Come Into Immediate Felt Contact, And So Derive Energy, Power And A Dark Sort Of Joy. This Effort Into Sheer Naked Contact, Without An Intermediary Or Mediator Is The Root Meaning Of Religion.

Tragedy Ought Really To Be A Great Kick At Misery.

A Little Morphine In All The Air. It Would Be Wonderfully Refreshing For Everyone.

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.

He Reflected On The Decay Of Mankind-the Decline Of The Human Race Into Folly And Weakness And Rottenness. 'be A Good Animal, True To Your Animal Instinct' Was His Motto.

The History Of The Cosmos Is The History Of The Struggle Of Becoming. When The Dim Flux Of Unformed Life Struggled, Convulsed Back And Forth Upon Itself, And Broke At Last Into Light And Dark Came Into Existence As Light, Came Into Existence As Cold Shadow Then Every Atom Of The Cosmos Trembled With Delight.

She Looked At Him, And Oh, The Weariness To Her, Of The Effort To Understand Another Language, The Weariness Of Hearing Him, Attending To Him, Making Out Who He Was, As He Stood There Fair-bearded And Alien, Looking At Her. She Knew Something Of Him, Of His Eyes. But She Could Not Grasp Him. She Closed Her Eyes.

Men Always Do Leave Off Really Thinking, When The Last Bit Of Wild Animal Dies In Them.

The True Self Is Not Aware That It Is A Self. A Bird, As It Sings, Sings Itself. But Not According To A Picture. It Has No Idea Of Itself.

Anyone Who Is Kind To Man Knows The Fragmentariness Of Most Men, And Wants To Arrange A Society Of Power In Which Men Fall Naturally Into A Collective Wholeness, Since They Cannot Have An Individual Wholeness. In This Collective Wholeness They Will Be Fulfilled. But If They Make Efforts At Individual Fulfilment, They Must Fail For They Are By Nature Fragmentary.

One Never Can Know The Whys And The Wherefores Of One's Passional Changes.

The Sense Of Wonder, That Is Our Sixth Sense.

Sense Of Wonder

Sex Is Just Another Form Of Talk, Where You Act The Words Instead Of Saying Them.

You Don't Want To Love - Your Eternal And Abnormal Craving Is To Be Loved. You Aren't Positive, You're Negative. You Absorb, Absorb, As If You Must Fill Yourself Up With Love, Because You've Got A Shortage Somewhere.

Paris Was Sad. One Of The Saddest Towns: Weary Of Its Now-mechanical Sensuality, Weary Of The Tension Of Money, Money, Money, Weary Even Of Resentment And Conceit, Just Weary To Death, And Still Not Sufficiently Americanized Or Londonized To Hide The Weariness Under A Mechanical Jig-jig-jig!

Ours Is Essentially A Tragic Age, So We Refuse To Take It Tragically.

And In This Passion For Understanding Her Soul Lay Close To His; She Had Him All To Herself. But He Must Be Made Abstract First.

Persephone Herself Is But A Voice Or A Darkness Invisible Enfolded In The Deeper Dark Of The Arms Plutonic, And Pierced With The Passion Of Dense Gloom, Among The Splendor Of Torches Of Darkness, Shedding Darkness On The Lost Bride And Her Groom.

Our Civilisation Cannot Afford To Let The Censor-moron Loose. The Censor-moron Does Not Really Hate Anything But The Living And Growing Human Consciousness.

When Science Starts To Be Interpretive It Is More Unscientific Even Than Mysticism.

One Could Laugh At The World Better If It Didn't Mix Tender Kindliness With Its Brutality.

Love Is The Hastening Gravitation Of Spirit Towards Spirit, And Body Towards Body, In The Joy Of Creation.

Why, Oh Why Must One Grow Up, Why Must One Inherit This Heavy, Numbing Responsibility Of Living An Undiscovered Life? Out Of The Nothingness And The Undifferentiated Mass, To Make Something Of Herself! But What? In The Obscurity And Pathlessness To Take A Direction! But Whither? How Take Even One Step? And Yet, How Stand Still? This Was Torment Indeed, To Inherit The Responsibility Of One’s Own Life.

Most Fatal, Most Hateful Of All Things Is Bullying.... Sensual Bullying Of Course Is Fairly Easily Detected. What Is More Dangerous Is Ideal Bullying. Bullying People Into What Is Ideally Good For Them.

I Always Feel As If I Stood Naked For The Fire Of Almighty God To Go Through Me--and It's Rather An Awful Feeling. One Has To Be So Terribly Religious To Be An Artist.

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.

There Are Three Cures For Ennui: Sleep, Drink And Travel.

It Is No Good Casting Out Devils. They Belong To Us, We Must Accept Them And Be At Peace With Them.

In My Very Own Self, I Am Part Of My Family.

Go Deeper Than Love, For The Soul Has Greater Depths, Love Is Like The Grass, But The Heart Is Deep Wild Rock Molten, Yet Dense And Permanent. Go Down To Your Deep Old Heart, And Lose Sight Of Yourself. And Lose Sight Of Me, The Me Whom You Turbulently Loved. Let Us Lose Sight Of Ourselves, And Break The Mirrors. For The Fierce Curve Of Our Lives Is Moving Again To The Depths Out Of Sight, In The Deep Living Heart.

Man Is A Thought-adventurer.

The True Artist Doesn't Substitute Immorality For Morality. On The Contrary, He Always Substitutes A Finer Morality For A Grosser One.

We Are So Overwhelmed With Quantities Of Books, That We Hardly Realise Any More That A Book Can Be Valuable, Valuable Like A Jewel, Or A Lovely Picture, Into Which You Can Look Deeper And Deeper And Get A More Profound Experience Every Time.

Happiness Was A Term Of Hypocrisy Used To Bluff Other People.

I Like To Write When I Feel Spiteful; It's Like Having A Good Sneeze.

It Is A Curious Thing How Poets Tend To Become Ascetics.... Even A Debauch For Them Is A Self-flagellation. They Go On The Loose In Cruelty Against Themselves, Admitting That They Are Pandering To, And Despising, The Lower Self.

Nobody Knows You. You Don't Know Yourself. And I, Who Am Half In Love With You, What Am I In Love With? My Own Imaginings?

A Man Was Like A Child With His Appetites. A Woman Had To Yield Him What He Wanted, Or Like A Child He Would Probably Turn Nasty And Flounce Away And Spoil What Was A Very Pleasant Connection.

You Must Always Be A-waggle With 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!

The Nearer A Conception Comes Towards Finality, The Nearer Does The Dynamic Relation, Out Of Which This Concept Has Arisen, Draw To A Close. To Know Is To Lose.

The Autumn Always Gets Me Badly, As It Breaks Into Colours. I Want To Go South, Where There Is No Autumn, Where The Cold Doesn't Crouch Over One Like A Snow-leopard Waiting To Pounce.

Tragedy Looks To Me Like Man In Love With His Own Defeat. Which Is Only A Sloppy Way Of Being In Love With Yourself.

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.

When We Really Want To Go For Something Better, We Shall Smash The Old. Until Then, Any Sort Of Proposal, Or Making Proposals, Is No More Than A Tiresome Game For Self-important People.

So Slowly The Hot Elephant Hearts Grow Full Of Desire, And The Great Beasts Mate In Secret At Last, Hiding Their Fire.

I Should Feel The Air Move Against Me, And Feel The Things I Touched, Instead Of Having Only To Look At Them. I'm Sure Life Is All Wrong Because It Has Become Much Too Visual - We Can Neither Hear Nor Feel Nor Understand, We Can Only See. I'm Sure That Is Entirely Wrong.

Lies About Love We Are All Liars, Because The Truth Of Yesterday Becomes A Lie Tomorrow, Whereas Letters Are Fixed, And We Live By The Letter Of Truth. The Love I Feel For My Friend, This Year, Is Different From The Love I Felt Last Year. If It Were Not So, It Would Be A Lie. Yet We Reiterate Love! Love! Love! As If It Were A Coin With Fixed Value Instead Of A Flower That Dies, And Opens A Different Bud.

She Herself Had Never Been Able To Be Altogether Herself: It Had Been Denied Her.

My Belief Is In The Blood And Flesh As Being Wiser Than The Intellect. The Body-unconsciou S Is Where Life Bubbles Up In Us. It Is How We Know That We Are Alive, Alive To The Depths Of Our Souls And In Touch Somewhere With The Vivid Reaches Of The Cosmos.

Marriage And Deathless Friendship, Both Should Be Inviolable And Sacred: Two Great Creative Passions, Separate, Apart, But Complementary: The One Pivotal, The Other Adventurous: The One, Marriage, The Centre Of Human Life; And The Other, The Leap Ahead.

A Man And A Woman Are New To One Another Throughout A Life-time, In The Rhythm Of Marriage That Matches The Rhythm Of The Year. Sex Is The Balance Of Male And Female In The Universe, The Attraction, The Repulsion, The Transit Of Neutrality, The New Attraction, The Repulsion, Always Different, Always New.

Naught Is Possessed, Neither Gold, Nor Land Nor Love, Nor Life, Nor Peace, Nor Even Sorrow Nor Death, Nor Yet Salvation. Say Of Nothing: It Is Mine. Say Only: It Is With Me.

The Nature Of The Infant Is Not Just A New Permutation-and-combination Of Elements Contained In The Natures Of The Parents. There Is In The Nature Of The Infant That Which Is Utterly Unknown In The Natures Of The Parents.

The Great Home Of The Soul Is The Open Road.

Psychoanalysis Is Out, Under A Therapeutic Disguise, To Do Away Entirely With The Moral Faculty In Man.

And That Is ... How They Are. So Terribly Physically All Over One Another. They Pour Themselves One Over The Other Like So Much Melted Butter Over Parsnips. They Catch Each Other Under The Chin, With A Tender Caress Of The Hand, And They Smile With Sunny Melting Tenderness Into Each Other's Face.

Don't You Find It A Beautiful Clean Thought, A World Empty Of People, Just Uninterrupted Grass, And A Hare Sitting Up?

Water Is H2o, Hydrogen Two Parts, Oxygen One, But There Is Also A Third Thing, That Makes It Water And Nobody Knows What That Is.

I Can't Do With Mountains At Close Quarters - They Are Always In The Way, And They Are So Stupid, Never Moving And Never Doing Anything But Obtrude Themselves.

One Should Feel Inside Oneself For Right And Wrong, And Should Have The Patience To Gradually Realise One's God.

It's Hard To Ravish A Tin Of Sardines.

We Have To Hate Our Immediate Predecessors, To Get Free From Their Authority.

I Will Wait And Watch Till The Day Of David At Last Shall Be Finished, And Wisdom No More Fox-faced, And The Blood Gets Back Its Flame.

She Is My First, Great Love. She Was A Wonderful, Rare Woman - You Do Not Know; As Strong, And Steadfast, And Generous As The Sun. She Could Be As Swift As A White Whiplash, And As Kind And Gentle As Warm Rain, And As Steadfast As The Irreducible Earth Beneath Us.

Why Is A Door-knob Deader Than Anything Else?

I'll Do My Life Work, Sticking Up For The Love Between Man And Woman.

The Novel Is The Highest Form Of Human Expression So Far Attained. Why? Because It Is So Incapable Of The Absolute.

Only Youth Has A Taste Of Immortality.

But The Act, Called The Sexual Act, Is Not For The Depositing Of Seed. It Is For Leaping Off Into The Unknown, As From A Cliff's Edge, Like Sappho Into The Sea.

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.

There's Nothing Wrong With Sexual Feelings In Themselves, So Long As They Are Straightforward And Not Sneaking Or Sly. The Right Sort Of Sex Stimulus Is Invaluable To Human Daily Life. Without It The World Grows Grey.

Morality In The Novel Is The Trembling Instability Of The Balance. When The Novelist Puts His Thumb In The Scale, To Pull Down The Balance To His Own Predilection, That Is Immorality.

I Love Italian Opera - It's So Reckless. Damn Wagner, And His Bellowings At Fate And Death. Damn Debussy, And His Averted Face. I Like The Italians Who Run All On Impulse, And Don't Care About Their Immortal Souls, And Don't Worry About The Ultimate.

What's That As Flies Without Wings, Your Ladyship? Time! Time!

The Feelings I Don't Have I Don't Have. The Feelings I Don't Have, I Won't Say I Have. The Felings You Say You Have, You Don't Have. The Feelings You Would Like Us Both To Have, We Neither Of Us Have.

The Elephant, The Huge Old Beast, Is Slow To Mate

My Soul Is My Great Asset And My Great Misfortune.

The Whole Question Of Pornography Seems To Me A Question Of Secrecy. Without Secrecy There Would Be No Pornography. But Secrecy And Modesty Are Two Utterly Different Things. Secrecy Has Always An Element Of Fear In It, Amounting Very Often To Hate. Modesty Is Gentle And Reserved. Today, Modesty Is Thrown To The Winds, Even In The Presence Of The Grey Guardians. But Secrecy Is Hugged, Being A Vice In Itself. And The Attitude Of The Grey Ones Is: Dear Young Ladies, You May Abandon All Modesty, So Long As You Hug Your Dirty Little Secret.

This Is What I Believe: That I Am I. That My Soul Is A Dark Forest. That My Known Self Will Never Be More Than A Little Clearing In The Forest. That Gods, Strange Gods, Come Forth From The Forest Into The Clearing Of My Known Self, And Then Go Back. That I Must Have The Courage To Let Them Come And Go. That I Will Never Let Mankind Put Anything Over Me, But That I Will Try Always To Recognize And Submit To The Gods In Me And The Gods In Other Men And Women. There Is My Creed.

For My Part, I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken. It Is So Lovely, Dawn-kaleidoscopic Within The Crack.

Poe Tried Alcohol, And Any Drug He Could Lay His Hands On. He Also Tried Any Human Being He Could Lay His Hands On.

Never Trust The Teller, Trust The Tale.

Censors Are Dead Men Set Up To Judge Between Life And Death. For No Live, Sunny Man Would Be A Censor, He'd Just Laugh.

And If Tonight My Soul May Find Her Peace In Sleep, And Sink In Good Oblivion, And In The Morning Wake Like A New-opened Flower Then I Have Been Dipped Again In God, And New-created.

Mystic Equality Lies In Abstraction, Not In Having Or In Doing, Which Are Processes. In Function And Process, One Man, One Part, Must Of Necessity Be Subordinate To Another. It Is A Condition Of Being.

Never Set A Child Afloat On The Flat Sea Of Life With Only One Sail To Catch The Wind.

Now Man Cannot Live Without Some Vision Of Himself. But Still Less Can He Live With A Vision That Is Not True To His Inner Experience And Inner Feeling.

Nobody Can Have The Soul Of Me. My Mother Has Had, And Nobody Can Have It Again. Nobody Can Come Into My Very Self Again, And Breathe Me Like An Atmosphere.

Sunday Night Meant, In The Dark, Wintry, Rainy Midlands ... Anywhere Where Two Creatures Might Stand And Squeeze Together And Spoon.... Spooning Was A Fine Art, Whereas Kissing And Cuddling Are Calf-processes.

The Map Appears To Us More Real Than The Land.

I Think New Mexico Was The Greatest Experience From The Outside World That I Have Ever Had.

The Flood Subsides, And The Body, Like A Worn Sea-shell Emerges Strange And Lovely.

I Want The Wonder Back Again, Or I Shall Die.

One Sheds One's Sicknesses In Books - Repeats And Presents Again One's Emotions, To Be Master Of Them.

I Am Not A Mechanism, An Assembly Of Various Sections. And It Is Not Because The Mechanism Is Working Wrongly, That I Am Ill. I Am Ill Because Of Wounds To The Soul, To The Deep Emotional Self, And The Wounds To The Soul Take A Long, Long Time, Only Time Can Help And Patience, And A Certain Difficult Repentance Long Difficult Repentance, Realization Of Life’s Mistake, And The Freeing Oneself From The Endless Repetition Of The Mistake Which Mankind At Large Has Chosen To Sanctify.

Not That The Red Indian Will Ever Possess The Broad Lands Of America. At Least I Presume Not. But His Ghost Will.

Native American

We Are So Conceited And So Unproud.

The Grim Frost Is At Hand, When Apples Will Fall Thick, Almost Thunderous, On The Hardened Earth.

I Am Convinced That The Majority Of People To-day Have Good, Generous Feelings Which They Can Never Know, Never Experience, Because Of Some Fear, Some Repression. I Do Not Believe That People Would Be Villains, Thieves, Murderers And Sexual Criminals If They Were Freed From Legal Restraint.

When Van Gogh Paints Sunflowers, He Reveals, Or Achieves, The Vivid Relation Between Himself, As Man, And The Sunflower, As Sunflower, At That Quick Moment Of Time. His Painting Does Not Represent The Sunflower Itself. We Shall Never Know What The Sunflower Itself Is. And The Camera Will Visualize The Sunflower Far More Perfectly Than Van Gogh Can.

God How I Hate New Countries: They Are Older Than The Old, More Sophisticated, Much More Conceited, Only Young In A Certain Puerile Vanity More Like Senility Than Anything.

At The Back Of My Life's Horizon, Where The Dreamings Of Past Lives Crowd.

All This Americanising And Mechanising Has Been For The Purpose Of Overthrowing The Past. And Now Look At America, Tangled In Her Own Barbed Wire, And Mastered By Her Own Machines.

Every Civilization When It Loses Its Inner Vision And Its Cleaner Energy, Falls Into A New Sort Of Sordidness, More Vast And More Stupendous Than The Old Savage Sort. An Augean Stable Of Metallic Filth.

I Don't Like Your Miserable Lonely Single Front Name. It Is So Limited, So Meager; It Has No Versatility; It Is Weighted Down With The Sense Of Responsibility; It Is Worn Threadbare With Much Use; It Is As Bad As Having Only One Jacket And One Hat; It Is Like Having Only One Relation, One Blood Relation, In The World. Never Set A Child Afloat On The Flat Sea Of Life With Only One Sail To Catch The Wind.

My Wife Has A Beastly Habit Of Comparing Poetry -- All Literature In Fact -- To The Droppings Of The Goats Among The Rocks -- Mere Excreta That Fertilises The Ground It Falls On.

He Felt He Had Lost It For Good, He Knew What It Was To Have Been In Communication With Her, And To Be Cast Off Again. In Misery, His Heart Like A Heavy Stone, He Went About Unliving.

They Say The Sea Is Cold, But The Sea Contains The Hottest Blood Of All, And The Wildest, The Most Urgent.

In Every Great Novel, Who Is The Hero All The Time? Not Any Of The Characters, But Some Unnamed And Nameless Flame Behind Them All.

Sex And A Cocktail: They Both Lasted About As Long, Had The Same Effect, And Amounted To About The Same Thing.

In Every Living Thing There Is The Desire For Love.

We Must Know, If Only In Order To Learn Not To Know. The Supreme Lesson Of Human Consciousness Is To Learn How Not To Know. That Is, How Not To Interfere.

It Was As If Thousands And Thousands Of Little Roots And Threads Of Consciousness In Him And Her Had Grown Together Into A Tangled Mass, Till They Could Crowd No More, And The Plant Was Dying. Now Quietly, Subtly, She Was Unravelling The Tangle Of His Consciousness And Hers, Breaking The Threads Gently, One By One, With Patience And Impatience To Get Clear.

One Must Learn To Love, And Go Through A Good Deal Of Suffering To Get To It, Like Any Knight Of The Grail, And The Journey Is Always Towards The Other Soul, Not Away From It. . . . To Love You Have To Learn To Understand The Other, More Than She Understands Herself, And To Submit To Her Understanding Of You. It Is Damnably Difficult And Painful, But It Is The Only Thing Which Endures.

For Us To Go To Italy And To Penetrate Into Italy Is Like A Most Fascinating Act Of Self-discovery

For Whereas The Mind Works In Possibilities, The Intuitions Work In Actualities, And What You Intuitively Desire, That Is Possible To You. Whereas What You Mentally Or "consciously" Desire Is Nine Times Out Of Ten Impossible; Hitch Your Wagon To A Star, Or You Will Just Stay Where You Are.

Oh, 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.

America Is Neither Free Nor Brave, But A Land Of Tight, Iron-clanking Little Wills, Everybody Trying To Put It Over Everybody Else, And A Land Of Men Absolutely Devoid Of The Real Courage Of Trust, Trust In Life's Sacred Spontaneity. They Can't Trust Life Until They Can Control It.

One Realm We Have Never Conquered: The Pure Present.

The World Is Wonderful And Beautiful And Good Beyond One's Wildest Imagination.

Life Is Beautiful, As Long As It Consumes You. When It Is Rushing Through You, Destroying You, Life Is Gorgeous, Glorious. It's When You Burn A Slow Fire And Save Fuel, That Life's Not Worth Having.

I Want To Live My Life So That My Nights Are Not Full Of Regrets.

Previously, Even In Egypt, Men Had Not Learned To See Straight. They Fumbled In The Dark, And Didn't Quite Know Where They Were, Or What They Were. Like Men In A Dark Room, They Only Felt Their Existence Surging In The Darkness Of Other Creatures. We, However, Have Learned To See Ourselves For What We Are, As The Sun Sees Us. The Kodak Bears Witness.

And Besides, Look At Elder Flowers And Bluebells-they Are A Sign That Pure Creation Takes Place - Even The Butterfly. But Humanity Never Gets Beyond The Caterpillar Stage -it Rots In The Chrysalis, It Never Will Have Wings.it Is Anti-creation, Like Monkeys And Baboons.

Things Men Have Made With Wakened Hands, And Put Soft Life Into Are Awake Through Years With Transferred Touch, And Go On Glowing For Long Years. And For This Reason, Some Old Things Are Lovely Warm Still With The Life Of Forgotten Men Who Made Them.

That She Bear Children Is Not A Woman's Significance. But That She Bear Herself, That Is Her Supreme And Risky Fate.

It's Better To Be Born Lucky Than Rich. If You're Rich, You May Lose Your Money, But If You're Born Lucky, You Will Always Have More Money.

Recklessness Is Almost A Man's Revenge On His Woman. He Feels He Is Not Valued So He Will Risk Destroying Himself To Deprive Her Altogether.

The Horse, The Horse! The Symbol Of Surging Potency And Power Of Movement, Of Action.

There's Lots Of Good Fish In The Sea...maybe...but The Vast Masses Seem To Be Mackerel Or Herring, And If You're Not Mackerel Or Herring Yourself, You Are Likely To Find Very Few Good Fish In The Sea.

Shall I Tell You What You Have That Other Men Don't?.... It's The Courage Of Your Own Tenderness.

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.

Is Our Day Of Creative Life Finished? Does There Remain To Us Only The Strange, Awful Afterwards Of The Knowledge In Dissolution,the African Knowledge, But Different For Us, Who Are Blond And Blue-eyed From The North?.... There Was Another Way, The Way Of Freedom. There Was The Paradisal Entry Into Pure, Single Beingwhich Accepted The Obligation Of The Permanent Connection With Others, And With The Other, Submits To The Yoke And Leash Of Love, But Never Forfeits Its Own Proud Individual Singleness, Even While It Loves And Yields.

You Will Not Easily Get A Man To Believe That His Carnal Love For The Woman He Has Made His Wife Is As High A Love As That He Feltfor His Mother Or Sister.

Sing Then The Core Of Dark And Absolute Oblivion Where The Soul At Last Is Lost In Utter Peace.

The More Scholastically Educated A Man Is Generally, The More He Is An Emotional Boor.

We Make A Mistake Forsaking England And Moving Out Into The Periphery Of Life. After All, Taormina, Ceylon, Africa, America -- As Far As We Go, They Are Only The Negation Of What We Ourselves Stand For And Are: And We're Rather Like Jonahs Running Away From The Place We Belong.

If A Woman's Got Nothing But Her Fair Fame To Feed On, Why, It's Thin Tack, And A Donkey Would Die Of It!

Every Man Has A Mob Self And An Individual Self, In Varying Proportions.

I've Never Seen A Wild Thing Feel Sorry For Itself.

We Don't Exist Unless We Are Deeply And Sensually In Touch With That Which Can Be Touched But Not Known.

Sight Is The Least Sensual Of All The Senses. And We Strain Ourselves To See, See, See--everything, Everything Through The Eye, Inone Mode Of Objective Curiosity.

Death Is ... A Travelling Asunder Into Elemental Chaos. And From The Elemental Chaos All Is Cast Forth Again Into Creation. Therefore Death Also Is But A Cul-de-sac, A Melting-pot.

Men Fight For Liberty And Win It With Hard Knocks. Their Children, Brought Up Easy, Let It Slip Away Again, Poor Fools. And Their Grandchildren Are Once More Slaves.

When I Wish I Was Rich, Then I Know I Am Ill.

Creation Destroys As It Goes, Throws Down One Tree For The Rise Of Another. But Ideal Mankind Would Abolish Death, Multiply Itself Million Upon Million, Rear Up City Upon City, Save Every Parasite Alive, Until The Accumulation Of Mere Existence Is Swollen To A Horror.

Human Love, Human Trust, Are Always Perilous, Because They Break Down. The Greater The Love, The Greater The Trust, And The Greater The Peril, The Greater The Disaster. Because To Place Absolute Trust On Another Human Being Is In Itself A Disaster, Both Ways, Since Each Human Being Is A Ship That Must Sail Its Own Course, Even If It Go In Company With Another Ship.... And Yet, Love Is The Greatest Thing Between Human Beings.

I Hate The Actor And Audience Business. An Author Should Be In Among The Crowd, Kicking Their Shins Or Cheering Them On To Some Mischief Or Merriment.

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.

Literary Criticism Can Be No More Than A Reasoned Account Of The Feeling Produced Upon The Critic By The Book He Is Criticising.

Sleep Is Still Most Perfect, In Spite Of Hygienists, When It Is Shared With A Beloved. The Warmth, The Security And Peace Of Soul, The Utter Comfort From The Touch Of The Other, Knits The Sleep, So That It Takes The Body And Soul Completely In Its Healing.

The Word Arse Is As Much God As The Word Face. It Must Be So, Otherwise You Cut Off Your God At The Waist.

How Can Any Man Be Free Without A Soul Of His Own, That He Believes In And Won't Sell At Any Price?

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Ray Stannard Baker

John Harvey Kellogg

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