The Moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming  globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across  space I shall never fully know. But the Moon that pulls the tides, and  the Moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the Moon that  touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist.  … When we describe the Moon as dead, we are describing the deadness  in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing  our own unbearable emptiness. — D.H. Lawrence, Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers of D.H. Lawrence, pt. 4, 1930.

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Poetic Aesthetic
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