[b]D.H. Lawrence
All the great words, it seemed to Connie were cancelled, for her generation: love, joy, happiness, home, mother, father, husband, all these great, dynamic words were half dead now and dying from day to day.[/b]
And then there’s all the great words that we no longer use here.
The optimist builds himself safe inside a cell and paints the inside walls sky-blue and blocks up the door and says he’s in heaven.
Well, some do.
Because you want to have everything in your own volition, your deliberate voluntary consciousness. You want it all in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like a nut. For you’ll be the same till it is cracked, like an insect in its skin. If one cracked your skull perhaps one might get a spontaneous, passionate woman out of you, with real sensuality. As it is, what you want is pornography–looking at yourself in mirrors, watching your naked animal actions in mirrors, so that you can have it all in your consciousness, make it all mental.
Is this something that’s important to know?
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.
Well, maybe his ideal.
If only you could tell them that living and spending isn’t the same thing.
Of course it’s only gotten much, much worse.
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A bird will fall frozen dead from a bough, without ever having felt sorry for itself.
Tell that to G.I. Jane.