T. S. Eliot Quotes
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We have all our private terrors, our particular shadows, our secret fears. We are afraid in a fear which we cannot face, which none understands, and our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the layers of an onion, ourselves the last.
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The majority of poems one outgrows and outlives, as one outgrows and outlives the majority of human passions.
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We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
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Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,An old man in a draughty houseUnder a windy knob.
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Those who have crossedWith direct eyes, to death's other KingdomRemember us - if at all - not as lostViolent souls, but onlyAs the hollow menThe stuffed men.
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When the Stranger says: 'What is the meaning of this city ? Do you huddle close together because you love each other?' What will you answer? 'We all dwell together To make money from each other'? or 'This is a community'?
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Maturing as a poet means maturing as the whole man, experiencing new emotions appropriate to one's age, and with the same intensity as the emotions of youth.
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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
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The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.
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And I have known the eyes already, known them all - The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
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And the wind shall say: 'Here were decent godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road And a thousand lost golf balls.'
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I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;Her coat is one of the tabby kind,with tiger stripes and lepard spots.
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I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.
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Playwriting gets into your blood and you can't stop it. At least not until the producers or the public tell you to.
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The broad-backed hippopotamusRests on his belly in the mud;Although he seems so firm to usHe is merely flesh and blood.
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Quick now, here, now, always- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
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Television is a medium of entertainment which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet remain lonesome.
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Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
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A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.
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There came one who spoke of the shame of Jerusalem And the holy places defiled; Peter the Hermit, scourging with words. And among his hearers were a few good men, Many who were evil, And most who were neither, Like all men in all places.
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I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable.
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Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
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Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.
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It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.