[b]D.H. Lawrence
You can’t lose yourself, neither in woman nor humanity nor in God. You’ve always got yourself on your hands in the end: and a very raw and jaded and humiliated and nervous-neurasthenic self it is, too, in the end.[/b]
At least there is an end, he thought.
Man has made such a mighty struggle to feel at home on the face of the earth, without even yet succeeding.
And then the part where we’re six feet under it.
You live most intensely in human contact—and that’s what we shrink from, poor timid creatures, from giving our souls to somebody to touch; for they, bungling fools, will generally paw it with dirty hands.
I know the bungling fools here do. If not literally.
He felt again irresistibly drawn to her. He felt there was a secret bond, a secret thread between him and her, something very exclusive, which shut out everybody else and made him and her possess each other in secret.
Anyone here actually ever come close?
If it be not true to me,
What care I how true it be.
Though it be not true to thee,
It’s gay and gospel truth to me.
No getting around that, right?
Bolshevism, it seems to me, said Charlie, is just a superlative hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the bourgeois is, isn’t quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other things. Feelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man without them.
Maybe this is close enough, maybe it’s not.