I know the greatness of Christianity; it is a past greatness.. I live in 1924, and the Christian venture is done.
To every man who struggles with his own soul in mystery, a book that is a book flowers once, and seeds, and is gone.
The Brangwens had lived for generations on the Marsh Farm, in the meadows where the Erewash twisted sluggishly through alder trees, separating Derbyshire from Nottinghamshire.
Ursula and Gudrun Brangwen sat one morning in the window-bay of their father's house in Beldover, working and talking.
And still I look for the men who will dare to be roses of England wild roses of England men who are wild roses of England with metal thorns, beware! but still more brave and still more rare the courage of rosiness in a cabbage world fragrance of roses in a stale stink of lies rose-leaves to bewilder the clever fools and rose-briars to strangle the machine.
And can a man his own quietus make with a bare bodkin?
I see a redness suddenly come Into the evening's anxious breast-- 'Tis the wound of love goes home!
and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.
Only the desert has a fascination--to ride alone--in the sun in the forever unpossessed country--away from man. That is a great temptation.
I should think the American admiration of five-minute tourists has done more to kill the sacredness of old European beauty and aspiration than multitudes of bombs would have done.
Why does the thin grey strand Floating up from the forgotten Cigarette between my fingers, Why does it trouble me?
So slowly the hot elephant hearts grow full of desire, and the great beasts mate in secret at last, hiding their fire.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio . . . Changing guard.
I like Australia less and less. The hateful newness, the democratic conceit, every man a little pope of perfection.
Along the avenue of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices Of linen, go the chanting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .
With a woman, a man always wants to let himself go. And it is precisely with a woman that he should never let himself go ... but stick to his innermost belief and meet her just there.
Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.
It is marriage, perhaps, which had given man the best of his freedom, given him his little kingdom of his own within the big kingdom of the state.... It is a true freedom because it is a true fulfilment, for man, woman and children. Do we then want to break marriage? If we do break it, it means we all fall to a far greater extent under the direct sway of the State.
Hate's a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas onto life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas.
Poe tried alcohol, and any drug he could lay his hands on. He also tried any human being he could lay his hands on.
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.
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.
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.
You don't learn algebra with your blessed soul. Can't you look at it with your clear simple wits?
I can give you a spirit love, I have given you this long, long time; but not embodied passion. See, you are a nun. I have given you what I would give a holy nun...In all our relations no body enters. I do not talk to you through the senses - rather through the spirit. That is why we cannot love in the common sense.
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