«Любовник леди Чаттерлей / Lady Chatterley's Lover» kitabından alıntılar, sayfa 26
`It sounds like saying an egg may go as addled as it likes, so long as it keeps its shell on whole. But addled eggs do break of themselves.'
`I don't think people are eggs. Not even angels' eggs, my dear little evangelist.'
When you come to know men, that's how they are too sensitive in the wrong place.
Some people do marry to spite themselves, because they're dissapointed of something.
People pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic.
But I don't see how you're going to get bolshevism, when all the lads want is just money to enjoy themselves, and the girls the same, with fine clothes: and they don't care about another thing. They haven't the brains to be socialists.
After all, one may hear the most private affairs of other people, but only in a spirit of respect for the struggling, battered thing which any human soul is, and in a spirit of fine, discriminative sympathy.
How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.
She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap out of living things.
He felt if he could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die.
The fine flower of their intimacy was to her rather like an orchid, a bulb stuck parasitic on her tree of life, and producing, to her eyes, a rather shabby flower.
