[b]D.H. Lawrence
Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason why people should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight. There seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, instead of leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not understand.[/b]
On the other hand, what’s the point of bringing it up at all anymore?
Anyway, here’s an antidote:
For my part, life is so many things I don’t care what it is. It’s not my affair to sum it up. Just now it’s a cup of tea. This morning it was wormwood and gall. Hand me the sugar.
Come on, it might work.
The least little bit o’ money ‘ll really do… What have yer done ter yerselves, wi’ the blasted work? Spoilt yerselves. No need to work that much. Take yer clothes off an’ look at yourselves. Yer ought ter be alive an’ beautiful, an’ yer ugly an’ half dead.
Some get it, some don’t. And some even claim to know the difference.
Sex is really only touch, the closest of all touch. And it’s touch we’re afraid of. We’re only half-conscious, and half-alive. We’ve for to come alive and aware. Especially the English have got to get into touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. It’s our crying need.
Let’s pin down where to draw the line.
I know no greater delight than the sheer delight of being alone.
The trick though is in being that away around others.
Mr Hemingway does it extremely well. Nothing matters. Everything happens. One wants to keep oneself loose. Avoid one thing only: getting connected up. Don’t get connected up. If you get held by anything, break it. Don’t be held. Break it, and get away.
Or, as Neil once put it: youtu.be/MImNGJNcvIc