Henry Lawson Quotes

Beer makes you feel the way you ought to feel without beer.

Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways, And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low, I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not, And restless and lost on a road that I know.

Grey eyes that grow sadder than sunset or rain, Fond heart that is ever more true Firm faith that grows firmer for watching in vain--- She’ll wait by the sliprails for you.

We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well, But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.

Do you think now and then, now or then, in the whirl Of the city, while London is new, Of the hut in the Bush, and the freckled-faced girl Who is eating her heart out for you?

The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there, but we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear, Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well, But we break our herts! For the things we must not tell.

here is nothing to see, however, and not a soul to meet. You might walk for twenty miles along this track without being able to fix a point in your mind, unless you are a bushman. This is because of the everlasting, maddening sameness of the stunted trees - that monotony which makes a man long to break away and travel as far as trains can go, and sail as far as ship can sail - and farther.

I was human, very human, and if in the days misspent I have injured man or woman, it was done without intent. If at times I blundered blindly — bitter heart and aching brow — If I wrote a line unkindly — I am sorry for it now.

Ah! The world is a new and a wide one to you, But the world to your sweetheart is shut, For a change never comes to the lonely Bush girl From the stockyard, the bush, and the hut; And the only relief from the dullness she feels Is when ridges grow softened and dim, And away in the dusk to the sliprails she steals To dream of past meetings with him.

And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush - the nurse and tutor of eccentric minds, the home of the weird, and of much that is different from things in other lands.

own independent exhibition, marketing it as an American Salon des Refusés. In February 1908 eight painters showcased their work at the Macbeth Galleries. The Eight, as critic James Huneker baptized them, included Henri, Sloan, Glackens, Luks, and Shinn—the Philadelphia Five—and three others, stylistically different but equally determined to crack open NAD’s restrictive practices: symbolist Arthur B. Davies (who was well wired into wealthy New York collector circles), Impressionist/realist Ernest Lawson, and Postimpressionist Maurice Prendergast. (Davies and Lawson had been among the blackballed in 1907.)

Wake ere the burst of the great white sun     Into the blazing skies,     Our limbs are stiff and the lids are gummed     Over our blighted eyes.     But our souls have perished in dust and heat,     And this is the tale we tell,     Our lives are ever a grim retreat     With Death on the roofs of hell.   from Out on the Roof of Hell, by Henry Lawson

Epigraph: ‘No Australian who has wrestled with the ardours and subtleties of resolving this continent in terms of literature will discount Henry Lawson.’ Miles Franklin, 1942.

Gamers play with vintage video games, including the Atari system developed by the black entrepreneur Jerry Lawson. (Lucas Oleniuk/Toronto Star/Getty Images)

And, as I sit here writing by lamplight at midday, in the midst of a great city of shallow social sham, of hopeless, squalid poverty, of ignorant selfishness, cultured or brutish, and of noble and heroic endeavour frowned down or callously neglected, I am almost aware of a burst of sunshine in the room, and a long form leaning over my chair, and: "Excuse me for troublin' yer; I'm always troublin' yer; but there's that there poor woman...." And I wish I could immortalize him!

From the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream he was 600 times more likely to have a fatal car crash than if sober. High on drink, drugs and adrenalin, desperate to ensure that Dodi’s decoy ruse worked successfully, Henri Paul drove like a maniac, roaring through a heavily built-up area at reckless speeds. As Dominic Lawson, former editor of the Sunday Telegraph and a friend of the Princess, has observed: ‘Drunk or sober, no chauffeur would travel at over 100 miles per hour in a tunnel with a 30 miles per hour limit, unless ordered to do so by his boss.

The inhospitable environment and the past had predisposed the minds of its European inhabitants to hand over the government of their country to men who were wary of visionaries and all those who held out a promise of better things for mankind. Australians seemed chained for decades to come to the role of being a New Britannia in another world. The young Henry Lawson and all the other prophets of Utopia were doomed to a bitter disenchantment.