T. S. Eliot Quotes
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Mistah Kurtz - he dead
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Before a cat will condescend to treat you as a trusted friend, some little token of esteem is needed, like a dish of cream.
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Culture is the one thing that we cannot deliberately aim at. It is the product of a variety of more or less harmonious activities, each pursued for its own sake.
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This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
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I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
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This is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.
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The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening, The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!
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Art serves us best precisely at that point where it can shift our sense of what is possible, when we know more than we knew before, when we feel we have - by some manner of a leap - encountered the truth. That, by the logic of art, is always worth the pain.
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It has frequently been said that we never desire what we think absolutely inapprehensible: it is however true that some of our sharpest agonies are those in which the object of desire is regarded as both possible and imaginary.
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The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.
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I have given you the power of choice, and you only alternate Between futile speculation and unconsidered action.
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Let us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized upon a table.
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It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.
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Yeats was the greatest poet of our times . . . certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.
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In the vacant places We will build with new bricks
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We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us... and we drown.
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The destination cannot be described; / You will know very little until you get there; / You will journey blind.
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Because I do not hope to knowThe infirm glory of the positive hourBecause I do not thinkBecause I know I shall not knowThe one veritable transitory powerBecause I cannot drinkThere, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
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Let me show you the work of the humble. Listen.
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Unreal city, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
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Hell is oneself, hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections. There is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
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Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated And let my cry come unto Thee.
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The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.
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But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.