Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father’s house in Beldover, working and talking.
We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life.
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 real tragedy of England, as I see it, is the tragedy of ugliness. The country is so lovely: the man-made England is so vile.
I want the wonder back again, or I shall die.
In America the chief accusation seems to be one of “Eroticism.” This is odd, rather puzzling to my mind. Which Eros? Eros of the jaunty “amours,” or Eros of the sacred mysteries? And if the latter, why accuse, why not respect, even venerate?
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.
I have a very great fear of love. It is so personal. Let each bird fly with its own wings, and each fish swim its own course. – Morning brings more than love. And I want to be true to the morning.
If you believe in your own sex, and won’t have it done dirt to: they’ll down you. It’s the one insane taboo left: sex as a naturaland vital thing.
Gods die with men who have conceived them. But the god-stuff roars eternally, like the sea, with too vast a sound to be heard.
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.
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 East is marvellously interesting for tracing our steps back. But for going forward, it is nothing. All it can hope for is to be fertilised by Europe, so that it can start on a new phase.
Only this shimmeriness is the real living. The shape is a dead crust. The shimmer is inside really.
The mind is “ashamed” of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.
You don’t want to be an animal, you want to observe your own animal functions, so as to get a mental thrill out of them. It is allpurely secondary – and more decadent than the most hide-bound intellectualism.
The nice clean intimacy which we now so admire between the sexes is sterilizing. It makes neuters. Later on, no deep, magical sex-life is possible.
A book lives as long as it is unfathomed.
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.
Psychoanalysis is out, under a therapeutic disguise, to do away entirely with the moral faculty in man.