View Poll Results: D. H. Lawrence

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Thread: David Herbert Richards Lawrence

  1. #1
    WE'RE ALL GOING HOME HERO's Avatar
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    Default David Herbert Richards Lawrence

    D. H. Lawrence: EIE (ENFj-Ni?). My ex-boyfriend thought he VI'd SLE.


    - from Homosexuality and Literature 1890-1930 by Jeffrey Meyers; pp. 138-139 [IX—D. H. Lawrence (The White Peacock)]: In Lawrence’s novels, frustrated passion and frustrating marriage lead inevitably to a moment of male love.
    The swimming scene takes place immediately after Lettie’s final rejection of George during the third idyll in the wood, and at the end of Cyril’s tepid and unsuccessful courtship of George’s sister, Emily. Cyril, who is sometimes called Sybil, longs for someone to nestle against, and his strong attachment to George during the hay harvest culminates in the Whitmanesque ‘Poem of Friendship’ where the naked men roll in the grass and frolic in the pond, and the faithful dog chases away the intruding Emily. A bit earlier, George is sexually excited by looking at Cyril’s reproductions of the effeminate Beardsley’s Atalanta and Salome: ‘the more I look at these naked lines, the more I want her. It’s a sort of fine sharp feeling, like these curved lines’ (187). And at the pond, as Cyril Beardsall admires George’s naked body, George ‘laughed at me, telling me I was like one of Aubrey Beardsley’s long, lean ugly fellows. I referred him to many classic examples of slenderness’, in the same way that Annable compared himself to Greek statues. And as Cyril loses himself in contemplation of George’s physical beauty, he remembers the story of Annable. George

    saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took hold of me and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or rather, a woman he loved and did not fear. I left myself quite limply in his hands, and, to get a better grip of me, he put his arm round me and pressed me against him, and the sweetness of the touch of our naked bodies one against the other was superb. It satisfied in some measure the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it was the same with him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we looked at each other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for a moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man or woman. (257)

    The ‘rubbing’ is explicitly homosexual as Cyril replaces his tall and threatening sister Lettie (just as George replaces Emily for Cyril), and becomes ‘a woman he loved and did not fear’ in this final representation of the limp, passive figure pressed against the powerful male in An Idyll. The feeble rationalization (‘to get a better grip’) for the ‘naked bodies one against the other’ only heightens the homosexual effect, which to the reader is far from ‘vague and indecipherable’. We are not told what George feels, but Cyril projects his own feelings on to his lover (‘it was the same with him’). The frank, lyrical look ‘with eyes of still laughter’ is a satisfying contrast to George and Lettie’s torture ‘to look thus nakedly at the other’. Cyril’s final statement is a paraphrase of David’s lament for Jonathan in II Samuel 1: 26, ‘very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women’. In the ‘Poem of Friendship’, the Whitmanesque and biblical motifs combine to form a satisfying homosexual idyll that contrasts with unhappy marriages and frustrated love.

    - from Women in Love by D. H. Lawrence; p. 5 (Chapter I – Sisters): As she went upstairs, Ursula was aware of the house, of her home round about her. And she loathed it, the sordid, too-familiar place! She was afraid at the depth of her feeling against the home, the milieu, the whole atmosphere and condition of this obsolete life. Her feelings frightened her.
    The two girls were soon walking swiftly down the main road of Beldover, a wide street, part shops, part dwelling houses, utterly formless and sordid, without poverty. Gudrun, new from her life in Chelsea and Sussex, shrank cruelly from this amorphous ugliness of a small colliery town in the Midlands. Yet forward she went, through the whole sordid gamut of pettiness, the long amorphous gritty street. She was exposed to every stare, she passed on through a stretch of torment. It was strange that she should have chosen to come back and test the full effect of this shapeless, barren ugliness upon herself. Why had she wanted to submit herself to it, did she still want to submit herself to it, the insufferable torture of these ugly, meaningless people, this defaced countryside? She felt like a beetle toiling in the dust. She was filled with repulsion.
    They turned off the main road, past a black patch of common-garden, where sooty cabbage stumps stood shameless. No one thought to be ashamed. No one was ashamed of it all.
    ‘It is like a country in an underworld,’ said Gudrun. ‘The colliers bring it above-ground with them, shovel it up. Ursula, it’s marvellous, it’s really marvellous—it’s really wonderful, another world. The people are all ghouls, and everything is ghostly. Everything is a ghoulish replica of the real world, a replica, a ghoul, all soiled, everything sordid. It’s like being mad, Ursula.’

    - pp. 5-6: Women, their arms folded over their coarse aprons, standing gossiping at the ends of their block, started after the Brangwen sisters with that long, unwearying stare of aborigines; children called out names.
    Gudrun went on her way half dazed. If this were human life, if these were human beings, living in a complete world, then what was her own world, outside? She was aware of her grass-green stockings, her large grass-green velour hat, her full soft coat, of a strong blue colour. And she felt as if she were treading in the air, quite unstable, her heart was contracted, as if at any minute she might be precipitated to the ground. She was afraid.
    She clung to Ursula, who, through long usage was inured to this violation of a dark, uncreated, hostile world. But all the time her heart was crying, as if in the midst of some ordeal: ‘I want to go back, I want to go away, I want not to know it, not to know that this exists.’ Yet she must go forward.
    Ursula could feel her suffering.
    ‘You hate this, don’t you?’ she asked.
    ‘It bewilders me,’ stammered Gudrun.
    ‘You won’t stay long,’ replied Ursula.
    And Gudrun went along, grasping at release.

    - pp. 2-4: ‘When it comes to the point, one isn’t even tempted—of, if I were tempted, I’d marry like a shot. – I’m only tempted not to.’ The faces of both sisters suddenly lit up with amusement.
    ‘Isn’t it an amazing thing,’ cried Gudrun, ‘how strong the temptation is, not to!’ They both laughed, looking at each other. In their hearts they were frightened.
    There was a long pause, whilst Ursula stitched and Gudrun went on with her sketch. The sisters were women. Ursula twenty-six, and Gudrun twenty-five. But both had the remote, virgin look of modern girls, sisters of Artemis rather than of Hebe. Gudrun was very beautiful, passive, soft-skinned, soft-limbed. She wore a dress of dark-blue silky stuff, with ruches of blue and green linen lace in the neck and sleeves; and she had emerald-green stockings. Her look of confidence and diffidence contrasted with Ursula’s sensitive expectancy. The provincial people, intimidated by Gudrun’s perfect sang-froid and exclusive bareness of manner, said of her: ‘She is a smart woman.’ She had just come back from London, where she had spent several years, working at an art-school, as a student, and living a studio life.
    ‘I was hoping now for a man to come along,’ Gudrun said, suddenly catching her underlip between her teeth, and making a strange grimace, half sly smiling, half anguish. Ursula was afraid.
    ‘So you have come home, expecting him here?’ she laughed.
    ‘Oh my dear,’ cried Gudrun, strident, ‘I wouldn’t go out of my way to look for him. But if there did happen to come along a highly attractive individual of sufficient means—well’— she tailed off ironically. Then she looked searchingly at Ursula as if to probe her. ‘Don’t you find yourself getting bored?’ she asked of her sister. ‘Don’t you find that things fail to materialize? Nothing materializes! Everything withers in the bud.’
    ‘What withers in the bud?’ asked Ursula.
    ‘Oh, everything—oneself—things in general.’ There was a pause, whilst each sister vaguely considered her fate.
    ‘It does frighten one,’ said Ursula, and again there was a pause. ‘But do you hope to get anywhere by just marrying?’
    ‘It seems to be the inevitable next step,’ said Gudrun. Ursula pondered this, with a little bitterness. She was a class mistress herself, in Willey Green Grammar School, as she had been for some years.
    ‘I know,’ she said, ‘it seems like that when one thinks in the abstract. But really imagine it: imagine any man one knows, imagine him coming home to one every evening, and saying “Hello,” and giving one a kiss—‘
    There was a blank pause.
    ‘Yes,’ said Gudrun, in a narrowed voice. ‘It’s just impossible. The man makes it impossible.’
    ‘Of course there’s children’—said Ursula doubtfully. Gudrun’s face hardened.
    ‘Do you really want children, Ursula?’ she asked coldly. A dazzled, baffled look came on Ursula’s face.
    ‘One feels it is still beyond one,’ she said.
    Do you feel like that?’ asked Gudrun. ‘I get no feeling whatever from the thought of bearing children.’
    Gudrun looked at Ursula with a mask-like, expressionless face. Ursula knitted her brows.
    ‘Perhaps it isn’t genuine,’ she faltered. ‘Perhaps one doesn’t really want them, in one’s soul—only superficially.’ A hardness came over Gudrun’s face. She did not want to be too definite.
    ‘When one thinks of other people’s children’—said Ursula.
    Again Gudrun looked at her sister, almost hostile.
    ‘Exactly,’ she said, to close the conversation.
    The two sisters worked on in silence, Ursula having always that strange brightness of an essential flame that was caught, meshed, contravened. She lived a good deal by herself, to herself, working, passing on from day to day, and always thinking, trying to lay hold on life, to grasp it in her own understanding. Her active living was suspended, but underneath, in the darkness, something was coming to pass. If only she could break through the last integuments! She seemed to try and put her hands out, like an infant in the womb, and she could not, not yet. Still she had a strange prescience, an intimation of something yet to come.
    She laid down her work and looked at her sister. She thought Gudrun so charming, so infinitely charming, in her softness and her fine, exquisite richness of texture and delicacy of line. There was a certain playfulness about her too, such a piquancy of ironic suggestion, such an untouched reserve. Ursula admired her with all her soul.

    - p. 7: Gudrun sat down in silence. Her mouth was shut close, her face averted. She was regretting bitterly that she had ever come back. Ursula looked at her, and thought how amazingly beautiful she was, flushed with discomfiture. But she caused a constraint over Ursula’s nature, a certain weariness. Ursula wished to be alone, freed from the tightness, the enclosure of Gudrun’s presence.

    I think the character of Gudrun Brangwen (from Women in Love) might be Ni-ENFj (Beta NF) and Ursula might be Fi-ESFp (Static and Sensing type).


    - from Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence; p. 7: Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplished one’s history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.

    - p. 12: Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard, proud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferred theology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, the Apostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic; who ignored all sensuous pleasure: -- he was very different from the miner. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not the slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never learned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father, high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of this man’s sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, beyond her.
    He came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she had drunk wine.

    I’m not too sure regarding some of the types here. Perhaps ILI for Gertrude (or some INXx type) and maybe SEE for her husband, Walter Morel (or some ESXx type).


    - from The Plumed Serpent [Quetzalcoatl] by D. H. Lawrence; p. 8 (Chapter I—Beginnings of a Bull-Fight): So this was a bull-fight! Kate already felt a chill of disgust.
    In the seats of the Authorities were very few people, and certainly no sparkling ladies in high tortoise-shell combs and lace mantillas. A few common-looking people, bourgeois with not much taste, and a couple of officers in uniform. The President had not come.
    There was no glamour, no charm. A few commonplace people in an expanse of concrete were the elect, and below, four grotesque and effeminate looking fellows in tight, ornate clothes were the heroes. With their rather fat posteriors and their squiffs of pig-tails and their clean-shaven faces, they looked like eunuchs, or women in tight pants, these precious toreadors.

    - p. 4: Behind, above, sat a dense patch of people in the unreserved section. Already they were throwing things. Bum! came an orange, aimed at Owen’s bald spot, and hitting him on the shoulder. He glared round rather ineffectually through his big shell spectacles.
    “I’d keep my hat on if I were you,” said the cold voice of Villiers.
    “Yes, I think perhaps it’s wiser,” said Owen, with assumed nonchalance, putting on his hat again.
    Whereupon a banana skin rattled on Villiers’ tidy and ladylike little panama. He glared round coldly, like a bird that would stab with its beak if it got the chance, but which would fly away at the first real menace.

    - pp. 2-3: This was a reserved place in the “Sun.”
    Kate sat gingerly between her two iron loops, and looked vaguely around.
    “I think it’s thrilling!” she said.
    Like most modern people she had a will-to-happiness.
    “Isn’t it thrilling!” cried Owen, whose will-to-happiness was almost a mania. “Don’t you think so, Bud?”
    “Why, yes, I think it may be,” said Villiers, non-committal.
    But then Villiers was young, he was only over twenty, while Owen was over forty. The younger generation calculates its “happiness” in a more business-like fashion. Villiers was out after a thrill, but he wasn’t going to say he’d got one till he’d got it. Kate and Owen—Kate was also nearly forty—must enthuse a thrill, out of a sort of politeness to the great Show-man, Providence.


    Last edited by HERO; 09-12-2012 at 04:50 AM.

  2. #2
    Enlightened Hedonist Subteigh's Avatar
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    I am also interested in his type. I think your EIE typing could work.

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    lots of Se valuing in his writings >> his books alone make me think of esi or lsi; eie not the first choice
    Last edited by Amber; 12-21-2014 at 02:00 PM.

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    His picture made me chuckle a bit.

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    My guess is xSI




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    David Herbert Richards Lawrence - INFJ - Dostoyevsky


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    What type is he? I will find quotes later, I want to know I remember enjoying a couple of his books a lot.

    I want to say IEE.
    Last edited by Bethany; 04-14-2021 at 08:18 PM.
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    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=okCQ7rdujEo

    Aldous Huxley talking about D.H. Lawrence


    from wikipedia:

    His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Lawrence's writing explores issues such as sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct. His works include Sons and Lovers, The Rainbow, Women in Love and Lady Chatterley's Lover. Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage". At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation." Later, the literary critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness.

    Lawrence is best known for his novels Sons and Lovers, The Rainbow, Women in Love and Lady Chatterley's Lover. In these books, Lawrence explores the possibilities for life within an industrial setting. In particular Lawrence is concerned with the nature of relationships that can be had within such a setting. Though often classed as a realist, Lawrence in fact uses his characters to give form to his personal philosophy. His depiction of sexuality, though seen as shocking when his work was first published in the early 20th century, has its roots in this highly personal way of thinking and being. It is worth noting that Lawrence was very interested in the sense of touch and that his focus on physical intimacy has its roots in a desire to restore an emphasis on the body, and re-balance it with what he perceived to be Western civilisation's over-emphasis on the mind.


    Also: from an essay called The Tension of Opposites

    ‘Lawrence, like Nietzsche, is recognizably an individual stylist, and in him the question of metaphor goes beyond bare style. In particular, oxymoron is a dynamic, potent, form of metaphor for Lawrence, in large part because it makes something positive out of difference and opposition, rather than resemblance. The tension between two unrelated terms brought suddenly into proximity, to recall Paul Ricoeur's definition of oxymoron, is, in Lawrence, 'frictional', a word which, in his lexicon, has sexual overtones but which more properly refers to language and questions of style. In oxymoron, friction is generated (and meaning created) by the semantic or more properly, the logical, disparity between the two terms brought together. It is a type of metaphor which does not 'invent relations' so much as rely on our sense of logic. Yet the emphasis does not fall entirely on this principle of opposition. Structurally, oxymoron comprises two contradictory elements brought into a new relation to each other. In Women in Love it is this structure which resonates with significance because of its resemblance to’
    Last edited by Bethany; 04-15-2021 at 02:27 PM.
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    Quotes by D.H. Lawrence:

    “A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.”


    “For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.”


    “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.”


    “Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot.”


    “Perhaps only people who are capable of real togetherness have that look of being alone in the universe. The others have a certain stickiness, they stick to the mass.”


    “It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You've got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they've got to come. You can't force them.”


    “One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it, and the journey is always towards the other soul.”


    “Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”


    “But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.”


    “Nobody knows you.
    You don't know yourself.
    And I, who am half in love with you,
    What am I in love with?
    My own imaginings?”


    “Love is never a fulfillment. Life is never a thing of continuous bliss. There is no paradise. Fight and laugh and feel bitter and feel bliss: and fight again. Fight, fight. That is life.”


    “But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.”


    “Life is ours to be spent, not to be saved.”


    “We fucked a flame into being.”


    “I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I'm sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I'm sure that is entirely wrong.”


    “This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.”


    “I love trying things and discovering how I hate them.”


    “I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.”


    “no form of love is wrong, so long as it is love, and you yourself honour what you are doing. Love has an extraordinary variety of forms! And that is all there is in life, it seems to me. But I grant you, if you deny the variety of love you deny love altogether. If you try to specialize love into one set of accepted feelings, you wound the very soul of love. Love must be multi-form, else it is just tyranny, just death”


    “When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego,
    and when we escape like squirrels turning in the
    cages of our personality
    and get into the forests again,
    we shall shiver with cold and fright
    but things will happen to us
    so that we don't know ourselves.

    Cool, unlying life will rush in,
    and passion will make our bodies taut with power,
    we shall stamp our feet with new power
    and old things will fall down,
    we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like
    burnt paper.”
    Last edited by Bethany; 04-15-2021 at 02:50 PM.
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    Quotes about Lawrence:

    The picture of D.H Lawrence suggested by the obituary notices of ‘competent critics’ is of a man morose, frustrated, tortured, even a sinister failure. Perhaps this is because any other view of him would make his critics look rather silly...Lawrence was as little morose as an open clematis flower, as little tortured or sinister, or hysterical as a humming bird. Gay, skilful, clever at everything, furious when he felt like it but never grieved or upset, intensely amusing, without sentimentality or affection, almost always right in his touch for the content of things or persons, he was at once the most harmonious and the most vital person I ever saw.

    Catherine Carswell, Time and Tide Magazine, 16 March 1930. Reprinted in H. Coombes, D. H. Lawrence; a critical anthology. Penguin Books, 1973.

    Lawrence’s special and characteristic gift was an extraordinary sensitiveness to what Wordsworth called “unknown modes of being.” He was always intensely aware of the mystery of the world, and the mystery was always for him a numen, divine. Lawrence could never forget, as most of us almost continuously forget, the dark presence of the otherness that lies beyond the boundaries of man’s conscious mind. This special sensibility was accompanied by a prodigious power of rendering the immediately experienced otherness in terms of literary art.

    Aldous Huxley, "Introduction", in The letters of D. H. Lawrence,London, William Heinemann Limited, 1932.

    Isn’t it remarkable how everyone who knew Lawrence has felt compelled to write about him? Why, he’s had more books written about him than any writer since Byron!

    Aldous Huxley, as quoted in Interview, The Paris Review (1960)

    Is there no name later than Conrad's to be included in the Great Tradition? There is, I am convinced, one: D.H. Lawrence. Lawrence, in the English language, was the great genius of our time (I mean the age, or climatic phase, following Conrad's).

    F. R. Leavis, The Great Tradition (1948)

    The number of people who can copulate properly may be few; the number who can write well are infinitely fewer.

    Hugh MacDiarmid, Review of Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

    He had a mystical philosophy of "blood" which I disliked. "There is," he said, "another seat of consciousness than the brain and nerves. There is a blood consciousness which exists in us independently of the ordinary mental consciousness. One lives, knows and has one's being in the blood, without any reference to nerves and brain. This is one half of life belonging to the darkness. When I take a woman, then the blood percept is supreme. My blood knowing is overwhelming. We should realize that we have a blood being, a blood consciousness, a blood soul complete and apart from a mental and nerve consciousness." This seemed to me frankly rubbish, and I rejected it vehemently, though I did not then know that it led straight to Auschwitz.

    Bertrand Russell, in Portraits From Memory And Other Essays (1956), p. 114

    It seems to us now that his system, for all its fervour, was largely negative, a mere assertion of his denial of the system of his upbringing. His God, for instance, must be the exact opposite of the 'gentle Jesus' of his childhood. There must be nothing at all gentle about the "dark" force to which the dark independent outlaws of his dreams would owe a sort of reverence. . . .The community to which Lawrence looked forward, the leaders and the led, is established. Men act, instead of wasting their energies in abstract thought. And yet, if Lawrence had seen it, he would have been appalled. Fascism finally succeeded, at least temporarily, in making the synthesis that eluded Lawrence.

    Rex Warner, The Cult of Power (1946)
    Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

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    ‘Sex is the balance of male and female in the universe, the attraction, the repulsion, the transit of neutrality, the new attraction, the new repulsion, always different, always new. The long neuter spell of Lent, when the blood is low, and the delight of the Easter kiss, the sexual revel of spring, the passion of midsummer, the slow recoil, revolt, and grief of autumn, greyness again, then the sharp stimulus of winter of the long nights. Sex goes through the rhythm of the year, in man and woman, ceaselessly changing: the rhythm of the sun in his relation to the earth. Oh, what a catastrophe for man when he cut himself off from the rhythm of the year, from his unison with the sun and the earth. Oh, what a catastrophe, what a maiming of love when it was a personal, merely personal feeling, taken away from the rising and the setting of the sun, and cut off from the magic connection of the solstice and the equinox! This is what is the matter with us. We are bleeding at the roots, because we are cut off from the earth and sun and stars, and love is a grinning mockery, because, poor blossom, we plucked it from its stem on the tree of Life, and expected it to keep on blooming in our civilised vase on the table.’ D.H. Lawrence
    Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

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    khcs's Avatar
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    D. H. Lawrence - INFJ Dostoevsky

    This is the comment you are looking for



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    TIM
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    I can see EII working
    Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

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    Too lazy to write much qaz00's Avatar
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    IEI>EII

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    Interesting. I did have another IEI friend who liked him too- think she’s E9 like me.
    Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

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