Quotes from T.S. Eliot

In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.

Forgive us, O Lord, we acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man, Of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire; Who fear the blessing of God, the loneliness of the night of God, the surrender required, the deprivation inflicted; Who fear the injustice of men less than the justice of God; Who fear the hand at the window, the fire in the thatch, the fist in the tavern, the push into the canal, Less than we fear the love of God.

that which is only living Can only die

I've been born, and once is enough.

And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now.

The World is trying the experiment of attempting to form a civilized but non-Christian mentality. The experiment will fail; but we must be very patient in awaiting its collapse; meanwhile redeeming the time: so that the Faith may be preserved alive through the dark ages before us; to renew and rebuild civilization, and save the World from suicide.

This form, this face, this life living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken, the awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.

Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear

But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over". When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone

If Hell is where nothing connects, then being in the field of English must be the key to heaven's door! We are in the business of finding connections--within texts, between texts and contexts, between texts and ourselves, between our readings and the readings of other interpreters.

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

Footsteps shuffled on the stair/Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair/Spread out in fiery points/Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

O voyagers, O seamen, You who came to port, and you whose bodies Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea, Or whatever event, this is your real destination.' So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna On the field of battle. Not fare well, But fare forward, voyagers.

We must remember that what a writer does to people is not necessarily what he intends to do. It may be only what people are capable of having done to them.

For our own past is covered by the currents of action, But the torment of others remains an experience Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition. People change, and smile: but the agony abides.

April is the cruelest month.

Ash on an old man's sleeve, Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended, Dust in breathed was a house- The wall, the wainscot and the mouse. The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

Knowledge of speech, but not of silence; Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word... Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

When a poet's mind is perfectly equipped for its work, it is constantly amalgamating disparate experience; the ordinary man's experience is chaotic, irregular, fragmentary. The latter falls in love, or reads Spinoza, and these two experiences have nothing to do with each other, or with the noise of the typewriter or the smell of cooking; in the mind of the poet these experiences are always forming new wholes.

Honest criticism and sensible appreciation are directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry.

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God.

Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair;