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D. H. Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence

The Mess of Love

We’ve made a great mess of love
Since we made an ideal of it.
The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
That moment I begin to hate her.
 
The moment I even say to a woman: I love you!—
My love dies down considerably.
 
The moment love is an understood thing between us, we are sure of it,
It’s a cold egg, it isn’t love any more.
 
Love is like a flower, it must flower and fade;
If it doesn’t fade, it is not a flower,
It’s either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.
 
The moment the mind interferes with love, or the will fixes on it,
Or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
It is not love any more, it’s just a mess.
And we’ve made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.

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