[b]D.H. Lawrence
There was nothing now but this empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integrated life, the long living together of two people, who are in the habit of being in the same house with one another. Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the one end of living. All the many busy and important little things that make up the grand sum-total of nothingness![/b]
Go ahead, see if you can describe it better.
Sex and a cocktail: they both lasted about as long, had the same effect, and amounted to about the same thing.
Nope, don’t remember it that way at all.
It was like something lurking in the darkness within him…There it remained in the darkness, the great pain, tearing him at times, and then being silent.
Then a kind of swooshing back and forth.
She knew she would die like an early, colourless, scentless flower that the end of the winter puts forth mercilessly.
Now that’s grim.
Art-speech is the only truth.
Unless, of course, that’s a lie.
The bitch-goddess, as she is called, of Success, roamed, snarling and protective, round the half-humble, half-defiant Michaelis’ heels, and intimidated Clifford completely: for he wanted to prostitute himself to the bitchgoddess Success also, if only she would have him.
Fuck her has always been my own reaction.