D. H. Lawrence Quotes

Uneasily the leaves fall at this season, forgetting what to do or where to go; the red amnesiacs of autumn drifting thru the graveyard forest. What they have forgotten they have forgotten: what they meant to do instead of fall is not in earth or time recoverable the fossils of intention, the shapes of rot.

The mortality of all inanimate things is terrible to me, but that of books most of all.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

Dead we become the lumber of the world.

Man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

Autumn teaches us that fruition is also death; that ripeness is a form of decay. The willows, having stood for so long near water, begin to rust. Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.

Everything alive must die. Every building built to the sky will fall. Don't try to tell me my everlasting love is a lie.

When great leaves fall, the winter is at hand.

The damps of autumn sink into the leaves and prepare them for the necessity of their fall; and thus insensibly are we, as years close around us, detached from our tenacity of life by the gentle pressure of recorded sorrow.

Surely 't is better, when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away.

He removed several pages of death certificates, which were picked up by another breeze and sent into the trees. Some would fall with the leaves that September. Some would fall with the trees generations later.

...what makes you older is when your bones, muscles and blood wear out, when the heart sinks into oblivion and all the houses you ever lived in are gone and people are not really certain that your civilization ever existed.

Some things are forgotten, some things disappear, some things die.

All things are only transitory.

You've got to learn to accept the law of life, and face the fact that we disintegrate slowly.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Time is the devourer of all things.

I hate to say this, but I'll repeat it: After death, all we know that you do is stink.

Time is death.

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

Time that withers you will wither me. We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together. Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone.

Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.

To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?