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D. H. Lawrence

excerpt from The Man Who Died

at The Spirit and Flesh World Religion and Spirituality Online Library: uniting seemingly opposed ideologies and vibrations into the true, pristine harmony of cosmic oneness.



                ...Who would want to come back from the dead? A deep, deep nausea stirred in him, at the premonition of movement. He resented already the fact of the strange, incalculable moving that had already taken place in him: the moving back into consciousness. He had not wished it. He had wanted to stay outside, in the place where even memory is stone dead. ...

Strength came from somewhere, from revulsion; there was a crash and a wave of light, and the dead man was crouching in his lair, facing the animal onrush of light. Yet it was hardly dawn. And the strange, piercing keenness of daybreak's sharp breath was on him. It meant full awakening. ...

To be back! To be back again, after all that! He saw the linen swathing-bands fallen round his dead feet, and stooping, he picked them up, folded them, and laid them back in the rocky cavity from which he had emerged. Then he took the perfumed linen sheet, wrapped it round his mantle, and turned away, to the wanness of the chill dawn.

He was alone; and having died, was even beyond loneliness. ...desire was dead in him, even for food and drink. He had risen without desire, without even the desire to live, empty save for the all-overwhelming disillusion that lay like nausea where his life had been. Yet perhaps, deeper even than disillusion, was a desireless resoluteness, deeper even than consciousness. ...

He opened his eyes, and saw the world again bright as glass. It was life, in which he had no share any more. But it shone outside him, blue sky, and a bare fig-tree with little jets of green leaf. Bright as glass, and he was not of it, for desire had failed.

...The man who had died looked nakedly on life, and saw a vast resoluteness everywhere flinging itself up in stormy or subtle wave-crests, foam-tips emerging out of the blue invisible, a bland and orange cock or the green flame-tongues out of the extremes of the fig-tree. They came forth, these things and creatures of spring, glowing with desire and with assertion. They came like crests of foam, out of the blue flood of the invisible desire, out of the vast invisible sea of strength, and they came coloured and tangible, evanescent, yet deathless in their coming. The man who had died looked on the great swing into existence of things that had not died, but he saw no longer their tremulous desire to exist and to be. He heard instead their ringing, ringing, defiant challenge to all other things existing. ...

...And the destiny of life seemed more fierce and compulsive to him even than the destiny of death. The doom of death was a shadow compared to the raging destiny of life, the determined surge of life. ...


At twilight the peasant came home with the ass, and he said: "Master! It is said that the body was stolen from the garden, and the tomb is empty, and the soldiers are taken away, accursed Romans! And the women are there to weep."

The man who had died looked at the man who had not died.

"It is well," he said. "Say nothing, and we are safe."

And the peasant was relieved. He looked rather dirty and stupid, and even as much flameness as that of the young cock, which he had tied by the leg, would never glow in him. He was without fire. But the man who had died thought to himself: "Why, then, should he be lifted up? Clods of earth are turned over for refreshment, they are not to be lifted up. Let the earth remain earthy, and hold its own against the sky. I was wrong to seek to lift it up. I was wrong to try to interfere. The ploughshare of devastation will be overturned like the sods of the field. No man can save the earth from tillage. It is tillage, and not salvation..."

So he saw the man, the peasant, with compassion; but the man who had died no longer wished to interfere in the soul of the man who had not died, and who could never die, save to return to the earth. Let him return to the earth in his own good hour, and let no one try to interfere when the earth claims her own. ...

And at dawn, when he was better, the man who had died rose up, and on slow, sore feet retraced his way to the garden. ...he saw a woman hovering by the tomb, a woman in blue and yellow. ...

So he said to her: ...

"Madeleine! Do not be afraid. I am alive. ..."

"Don't touch me, Madeleine," he said. "Not yet! I am not yet healed and in touch with men."

"What is finished is finished, and for me the end is past," he said. "The stream will run till no more rain fills it, then it will dry up. For me, that life is over."

"And will you give up your triumph?" she said sadly.

"My triumph," he said, "is that I am not dead. I have outlived my mission, and know no more of it. It is my triumph. I have survived the day and the death of my interference, and am still a man. I am young still, Madeleine, not even come to middle age. I am glad all that is over. It had to be. But now I am glad it is over, and the day of my interference is done. The teacher and the savior are dead in me; now I can go about my business, into my own single life." ...

"I don't know what I shall do," he said. "When I am healed, I shall know better. But my mission is over, and my teaching is finished, and death has saved me from my own salvation. Oh, Madeleine, I want to take my single way in life, which is my portion. My public life is over, the life of my self-importance. Now I can wait on life, and say nothing, and have no one to betray me. I wanted to be greater than the limits of my hands and feet, so I brought betrayal on myself. And I know I wronged Judas, my poor Judas. For I have died, and now I know my own limits. Now I can live without striving to sway others any more. For my reach ends in my finger-tips, and my stride is no longer than the ends of my toes. ..."

"...I, in my mission, I too ran to excess. I gave more than I took, and that also is woe and vanity. So Pilate and the high priests saved me from my own excessive salvation. Don't run to excess now in giving, Madeleine. It only means another death." ...

A revulsion from all the life he has known came over him again, the great nausea of disillusion, and the spear-thrust through his bowels. He crouched under the myrtle bushes, without strength. Yet his eyes were open. And she looked at him again, and she saw that it was not the Messiah. The Messiah had not risen. The enthusiasm and the burning purity were gone, and the rapt youth. His youth was dead. This man was middle-aged and disillusioned, with a certain terrible indifference, and a resoluteness which love would never conquer. This was not the Master she had so adored, the young, flamy, unphysical exalter of her soul. This was nearer to the lovers she had known of old, but with a greater indifference to the personal issue, and a lesser susceptibility.

She was thrown out of the balance of her rapturous, anguished adoration. This risen man was the death of her dream. ...

Meanwhile the man who had died gathered himself together at last, and slowly made his way to the peasant's house. He was glad to go back to them, and away from Madeleine and his associates. For the peasants had the inertia of earth and would let him rest, and as yet, would put no compulsion on him. ...

Risen from the dead, he had realized at last that the body, too, has its little life, and beyond that, the greater life. He was virgin, in recoil from the little, greedy life of the body. But now he knew that virginity is a form of greed; and that the body rises again to give and to take, to take and to give, ungreedily. Now he knew that he had risen for the woman, or women, who knew the greater life of the body, not greedy to give, not greedy to take, and with whom he could mingle his body. But having died, he was patient, knowing there was time, an eternity of time. And he was driven by no greedy desire, either to give himself to others, or to grasp anything for himself. For he had died. ...

So he went back to the peasant's house, to the yard where the young cock was tied by the leg, with a string. And he wanted no one, for it was best to be alone; for the presence of people made him lonely. The sun and the subtle salve of spring healed his wounds, even the gaping wound of disillusion through his bowels was closing up. And his need of men and women, his fever to have them and to be saved by them, this too was healing in him. Whatever came of touch between himself and the race of men, henceforth, should come without trespass or compulsion. For he said to himself:

"I tried to compel them to live, so they compelled me to die. It is always so, with compulsion. The recoil kills the advance. Now is my time to be alone."

"The Word is but the midge that bites at evening. Man is tormented with words like midges, and they follow him right into the tomb. But beyond the tomb they cannot go. Now I have passed the place where words can bite no more and the air is clear, and there is nothing to say, and I am alone within my own skin, which is the walls of all my domain."

So he healed of his wounds, and enjoyed his immortality of being alive without fret. For in the tomb he had slipped that noose which we call care. For in the tomb he had left his striving self, which cares and asserts itself. Now his uncaring self healed and became whole within his skin, and he smiled to himself with pure aloneness, which is one sort of immortality. ...

The man who had died wandered on, and it was a sunny day. He looked around as he went, and stood aside as the pack-train passed by, towards the city. And he said to himself:

"Strange is the phenomenal world, dirty and clean together! And I am the same. Yet I am apart! And life bubbles variously. Why should I have wanted it to bubble all alike? What a pity I preached to them! A sermon is so much more likely to cake into mud, and to close the fountains, than is a psalm or a song. I made a mistake. I understand that they executed me for preaching to them. Yet they could not finally execute me, for now I am risen in my own aloneness, and inherit the earth, since I lay no claim on it. And I will be alone in the seethe of all things; first and foremost, forever, I shall be alone. ...And perhaps one evening, I shall meet a woman who can lure my risen body, yet leave me my aloneness. ..."


(by D. H. Lawrence, excerpted from The Man Who Died)









Books by Jack Haas





"Having awoken to my own immortal self, I am endeavoring to share my journey with others, though without attempting to impart a structure on a process which must always be natural and unique to each individual."

Jack Haas




What the critics have said about books by Jack Haas:

"...very strongly recommended reading..." The Midwest Book Review
"Few like Jack Haas go the whole hog. ...eminently readable."
Nandakumar Nayar (bookreview.com)
"...the voice crying out in the wilderness, bravely, madly, tenderly, ironically...so densely, so wonderously well."
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"The Kerouac of the new millennium."
Frank Wolf (extreme adventurer and author of Blind Bay)
"...a glorious illumination of our spiritual birthright."
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"Jack Haas delivers a wonderful message."
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IN AND OF : memoirs of a mystic journey

by Jack Haas    available in paperback and ebook


The autobiographical account of Jack Haas’ journey from the claustrophobic city, to the primitive wilderness of coastal British Columbia, California, and Alaska, and into the uncharted regions of the soul. This is a true tale of adventure, misadventure, wonder, struggle, mysticism, and miracles. It is a journey into rare experiences, and it is a journey home. If you love a good read, you won't be disappointed by this prose masterpiece. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and a B.C. Book Prize.


“…an enthralling, true-life account… very strongly recommended reading...” Midwest Book Review (Reviewer's Choice, five stars)




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by Jack Haas      available in paperback and ebook


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“…exquisitely balances poetic rapture and esoteric insight. …a glorious illumination of our spiritual birthright.” Benjamin Tucker (author of Roadeye)




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by Jack Haas      available in paperback and ebook


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by Jack Haas      available in paperback and ebook


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“...a most unusual, and powerful book.” George Fisk (author of A New Sense of Destiny




THE TAO OF ETERNITY: the transcendent, immortal spirit, and the subtle, infinite self

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In the spirit of Lao Tzu's Tao te Ching, Jack Haas conveys the subtle, effortless, identitiless nature of the eternal self. Assimilating his own brief, insightful pieces with quotes from a great variety of other sources, Haas attempts to take the reader beyond the current manifest paradigm, and into an everlasting awakening to their own immortal, unmanifest self. This is a potent, modern exposition based on personal experience. A valuable work which will assist readers in recognizing their own eternal nature.






THE DREAM OF BEING: aphorisms, ideograms, and aislings      

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“…a very different type of inspirational work and highly recommended as an example of the art of poetry…” Midwest Book Review (Reviewer's Choice, five stars)




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Combining beautiful, artistic nude photographs of his soror mystica (his alchemical mystical sister), whom he has written about throughout his three autobiographical books, Jack Haas adds metaphysical writings and quotes from various esoteric sources, to create a unique book which emphatically declares the sacred, living aspect of the earth and all flesh, as well as the divine nature of the feminine soul. The juxtaposition of numerous stunning nude pictures alongside inspiring metaphysical text makes for a tremendous spiritual and aesthetic journey into the body and soul of the Mother Goddess.



























































































































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