Women in LoveT. Seltzer, 1923 - 548 pages The story of the lives and emotional conflicts of two sisters. Ursula falls in love with Birkin and Gudrum has a tragic affair with Gerald, the son of the local colliery owner. |
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Expressions et termes fréquents
afraid answered arms asked Gerald asked Gudrun asked Ursula beautiful Beldover Birkin looked Bismarck boat body Brangwen catkins cold consciousness Crich cried Gudrun cried Ursula D. H. LAWRENCE dark dead death door eurythmic everything eyes face faint father feel felt flowers flushed frightened Gerald looked girl glad gone grey Gudrun looked hair Halliday hand hate head heart Hermione kissed knew laughed lifted light living Loerke marriage married Maud Allan mind mocking mother moved nausea ness never night Orpah pale passion pause perfect perfectly pure Pussum queer replied rose Rupert seemed shadow Shortlands silence sisters sleep slowly smile snow soft softly sort soul stood strange suddenly sure talk There's things thought tick-tack touch turned unconscious voice waited walked watched whilst Willey Green Winifred woman wonderful young zither
Fréquemment cités
Page 547 - You can't have two kinds of love. Why should you?" "It seems as if I can't," he said. "Yet I wanted it." "You can't have it, because it's false, impossible," she said. "I don't believe that,
Page 263 - Yet he was not sure that they were not blue false bubbles that would burst in a moment and leave clear annihilation. He could see the darkness in them, as if they were only bubbles of darkness. He was afraid that one day he would break down and be a purely meaningless bubble lapping round a darkness.
Page 167 - What I want is a strange conjunction with you—" he said quietly; "—not meeting and mingling;— you are quite right:— but an equilibrium, a pure balance of two single beings:— as the stars balance each other.
Page 164 - At the very last, one is alone, beyond the influence of love. There is a real impersonal me, that is beyond love, beyond any emotional relationship. So it is with you. But we want to delude ourselves that love is the root. It isn't. It is only the branches. The root is beyond love, a naked kind of isolation, an isolated me, that does not meet and mingle, and never can.
Page 276 - It is most decidedly mad." He laughed. "The question is," he said, "what is madness? I don't suppose it is rabbit-mad." "Don't you think it is?" she asked. "No. That's what it is to be a rabbit." There was a queer, faint, obscene smile over his face. She looked at him and saw him, and knew that he was initiate as she was initiate. This thwarted her, and contravened her, for the moment. "God be praised we aren't rabbits," she said, in a high, shrill voice. The smile intensified a little, on his face....
Page 45 - 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.
Page 142 - I abhor humanity, I wish it \rtis swept away. It could go, and there would be no absolute loss, if every human being perished to-morrow. The reality would be untouched. Nay, it would be better. The real tree of life would then be rid of the most ghastly, heavy crop of Dead Sea Fruit, the intolerable burden of myriad simulacra of people, an infinite weight of mortal lies.
Page 226 - He wanted sex to revert to the level of the other appetites, to be regarded as a functional process, not as a fulfilment.
Page 47 - You've got to lapse out before you can know what sensual reality is, lapse into unknowingness, and give up your volition. You've got to do it. You've got to learn not-to-be, before you can come into being.
Page 87 - Why is it art?" Gerald asked, shocked, resentful. "It conveys a complete truth," said Birkin. "It contains the whole truth of that state, whatever you feel about it." "But you can't call it high art," said Gerald. .. "High! There are centuries and hundreds of centuries of development in a straight line, behind that carving; it is an awful pitch of culture, of a definite sort.