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I Said To My Soul, Be Still And Wait Without Hope, For Hope Would Be Hope For The Wrong Thing; Wait Without Love, For Love Would Be Love Of The Wrong Thing; There Is Yet Faith, But The Faith And The Love Are All In The Waiting. Wait Without Thought, For You Are Not Ready For Thought: So The Darkness Shall Be The Light, And The Stillness The Dancing.

-T. S. Eliot

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I Said To My

T. S. Eliot

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I Said To My Soul, Be Still And Wait Without Hope, For Hope Would Be Hope For The Wrong Thing; Wait Without Love, For Love Would Be Love Of The Wrong Thing; There Is Yet Faith, But The Faith And The Love Are All In The Waiting. Wait Without Thought, For You Are Not Ready For Thought: So The Darkness Shall Be The Light, And The Stillness The Dancing.

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A Heap Of Broken Images, Where The Sun Beats, And The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter, The Cricket No Relief, And The Dry Stone No Sound Of Water. Only There Is Shadow Under This Red Rock, (come In Under The Shadow Of This Red Rock), And I Will Show You Something Different From Either Your Shadow At Morning Striding Behind You Or Your Shadow At Evening Rising To Meet You; I Will Show You Fear In A Handful Of Dust.

Should I, After Tea And Cakes And Ices, Have The Strength To Force The Moment To Its Crisis?

Birth, And Copulation, And Death; That's All The Facts When You Come To Brass Tacks.

Now That Lilacs Are In Bloom She Has A Bowl Of Lilacs In Her Room And Twists One In Her Fingers While She Talks. "ah, My Friend, You Do Not Know, You Do Not Know What Life Is, You Who Hold It In Your Hands"; (slowly Twisting The Lilac Stalks) "you Let It Flow From You, You Let It Flow, And Youth Is Cruel, And Has No Remorse And Smiles At Situations Which It Cannot See." I Smile, Of Course, And Go On Drinking Tea.

The Dove Descending Breaks The Air With Flame Of Incandescent Terror Of Which The Tongues Declare The One Discharge From Sin And Error. The Only Hope, Or Else Despair Lies In The Choice Of Pyre Or Pyre- To Be Redeemed From Fire By Fire. Who Then Devised The Torment? Love. Love Is The Unfamiliar Name Behind The Hands That Wove The Intolerable Shirt Of Flame Which Human Power Cannot Remove. We Only Live, Only Suspire Consumed By Either Fire Or Fire.

Love Is Most Nearly Itself When Here And Now Cease To Matter.

Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance

The Historical Sense Involves A Perception, Not Only Of The Pastness Of The Past, But Of Its Presence

But It Seems That Something Has Happened That Has Never Happened Before; Though We Know Not Just When, Or Why, Or How, Or Where. Men Have Left God Not For Gods, They Say, But For No Gods; And This Has Never Happened Before. That Men Both Deny Gods And Worship Gods, Professing First Reason, And The Money, And Power, And What They Call Life, Or Race, Or Dialect.the Church Disowned, The Tower Overthrown, The Bells Upturned, What Have We To Do But Stand With Empty Hands And Palms Upturned In An Age Which Advances Progressively Backwards?

Old Men Ought To Be Explorers.

We Had The Experience, But We Missed The Meaning.

My Name Is Only An Anagram Of Toilets.

Love Is The Unfamiliar Name Behind The Hands That Wove The Intolerable Shirt Of Flame Which Human Power Cannot Remove.

He Is Haunted By A Demon, A Demon Against Which He Feels Powerless, Because In Its First Manifestation It Has No Face, No Name, Nothing; And The Words, The Poem He Makes, Are A Kind Of Exorcism Of This Demon.

Signs Are Taken For Wonders. / 'we Would See A Sign!' / The Word Within A Word, Unable To Speak A Word, / Swaddled With Darkness.

To Make An End Is To Make A Beginning.

In The End Is My Beginning.

Teach Us To Care And Not To Care Teach Us To Sit Still. Pray For Us Sinners Now And At The Hour Of Our Death Pray For Us Now And At The Hour Of Our Death.

The Destination Cannot Be Described; / You Will Know Very Little Until You Get There; / You Will Journey Blind.

And Voices Singing Out Of Empty Cisterns And Exhausted Wells.

An Editor Should Tell The Author His Writing Is Better Than It Is. Not A Lot Better, A Little Better.

The Greatness Of Literature Cannot Be Determined Solely By Literary Standards Though We Must Remember That Whether It Is Literature Or Not Can Be Determined Only By Literary Standards.

Every Experience Is A Paradox In That It Means To Be Absolute, And Yet Is Relative; In That It Somehow Always Goes Beyond Itself And Yet Never Escapes Itself.

The Hint Half Guessed, The Gift Half Understood, Is Incarnation.

The Usual Dog About The Town Is Much Inclined To Play The Clown.

So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

The Communication Of The Dead Is Tongued With Fire Beyond The Language Of The Living.

I Am An Anglo-catholic In Religion, A Classicist In Literature And A Royalist In Politics.

History May Be Servitude. History May Be Freedom. See, Now They Vanish. The Faces And Places, With The Self Which, As It Could, Loved Them, To Become Renewed, Transfigured, In Another Pattern.

The Majority Of Mankind Is Lazyminded, Incurious, Absorbed In Vanities, And Tepid In Emotion, And Is Therefore Incapable Of Either Much Doubt Or Much Faith.

Dayodhuam: I Have Heard The Key Turn In The Door Once And Turn Once Only We Think Of The Key, Each In His Prison Thinking Of The Key, Each Confirms A Prison.

I Said To My Soul, Be Still, And Wait Without Hope, For Hope Would Be Hope For The Wrong Thing.

And Indeed There Will Be Time To Wonder, "do I Dare?" And, "do I Dare?" Time To Turn Back And Descend The Stair, With A Bald Spot In The Middle Of My Hair.

Poets In Our Civilization, As It Exists At Present, Must Be Difficult...the Poet Must Become More And More Comprehensive, More Allusive, More Indirect, In Order To Force, To Dislocate If Necessary, Language Into Its Meaning.

Can We Only Love Something Created In Our Own Imaginations?

Love Compels Cruelty To Those Who Do Not Understand Love.

To Men Of A Certain Type The Suspicion That They Are Incapable Of Loving Is As Disturbing To Their Self-esteem As, In Cruder Men, The Fear Of Impotence.

His Laughter Tinkled Among The Teacups.

Today, You're Halfway To 100! Here's To Optimism, Whether It Is Realistic Or Not. Happy 50th Birthday!

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.

Our High Respect For A Well Read Person Is Praise Enough For Literature.

There Is One Who Remembers The Way To Your Door: Life You May Evade, But Death You Shall Not.

The Young Feel Tired At The End Of An Action, The Old At The Beginning.

Bad Poets Imitate, Good Poets Steal.

I Think We Are In Rats’ Alley Where The Dead Men Lost Their Bones.

I Will Show You Fear In A Handful Of Dust." T.s. Eliot We Don't Actually Fear Death, We Fear That No One Will Notice Our Absence, That We Will Disappear Without A Trace.

You Have To Risk Going Too Far To Discover Just How Far You Can Really Go.

Those Who Say They Give The Public What It Wants Begin By Underestimating Public Taste And End By Debauching It.

It Seems Just Possible That A Poem Might Happen To A Very Young Man: But A Poem Is Not Poetry -that Is A Life.

To Do The Useful Thing, To Say The Courageous Thing, To Contemplate The Beautiful Thing: That Is Enough For One Man's Life.

So Far As We Are Human, What We Do Must Be Either Evil Or Good: So Far As We Do Evil Or Good, We Are Human: And It Is Better, In A Paradoxical Way, To Do Evil Than To Do Nothing: At Least We Exist.

A Wrong Attitude Towards Nature Implies, Somewhere, A Wrong Attitude Towards God, And That The Consequence Is An Inevitable Doom. For A Long Enough Time We Have Believed In Nothing But The Values Arising In A Mechanized, Commercialized, Urbanized Way Of Life: It Would Be As Well For Us To Face The Permanent Conditions Upon Which God Allows Us To Live Upon This Planet.

Whatever You Think, Be Sure It Is What You Think; Whatever You Want, Be Sure That Is What You Want; Whatever You Feel, Be Sure That Is What You Feel.

Light Light The Visible Reminder Of Invisible Light.

Only Through Time Time Is Conquered

You Will Find That You Survive Humiliation. And That's An Experience Of Incalculable Value.

Thought Provoking

We Shall Not Cease From Exploring, And The End Of Our Exploring Will Be To Arrive Where We Started And Know The Place For The First Time.

Humility Is The Most Difficult Of All Virtues To Achieve; Nothing Dies Harder Than The Desire To Think Well Of Self.

We Are Being Made Aware That The Organization Of Society On The Principle Of Private Profit, As Well As Public Destruction, Is Leading Both To The Deformation Of Humanity By Unregulated Industrialism, And To The Exhaustion Of Natural Resources, And That A Good Deal Of Our Material Progress Is A Progress For Which Succeeding Generations May Have To Pay Dearly.

The Soul Of Man Must Quicken To Creation.

There Is No Feeling, Except The Extremes Of Fear And Grief, That Does Not Find Relief In Music.

Hurry Up, Please, Its Time.

Let's Not Be Narrow, Nasty, And Negative.

The Pekes And The Pollicles, Everyone Knows, Are Proud And Implacable, Passionate Foes; It Is Always The Same, Wherever One Goes. And The Pugs And The Poms, Although Most People Say That They Do Not Like Fighting, Will Often Display Every Symptom Of Wanting To Join In The Fray. And They Bark Bark Bark Bark Bark Bark Until You Can Hear Them All Over The Park.

A Book Is Not Harmless Merely Because No One Is Consciously Offended By It.

From A Purely External Point Of View There Is No Will; And To Find Will In Any Phenomenon Requires A Certain Empathy; We Observe Aman's Actions And Place Ourselves Partly But Not Wholly In His Position; Or We Act, And Place Ourselves Partly In The Position Of An Outsider.

Macavity, Macavity, There's No One Like Macavity, There Never Was A Cat Of Such Deceitfulness And Sauvity.

For Love Would Be Love Of The Wrong Thing; There Is Yet Faith, But The Faith And The Love And The Hope Are All In The Waiting.

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Tradition: How The Vitality Of The Past Enriches The Life Of The Present.

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I Shall Not Want Honor In Heaven For I Shall Meet Sir Philip Sidney And Have Talk With Coriolanus And Other Heroes Of That Kidney.

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We Took Up Our Positions, In Obedience To Instructions.

Turn Things You've Always Wanted To Do, Into Things You've Done

The Nobel Is A Ticket To One's Own Funeral. No One Has Ever Done Anything After He Got It.

Most Of The Evil In This World Is Done By People With Good Intentions.

I Can Connect Nothing With Nothing

If You Haven’t The Strength To Impose Your Own Terms Upon Life, Then You Must Accept The Terms It Offers You.

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All Time Is Unreedemable.

The Soul Is So Far From Being A Monad That We Have Not Only To Interpret Other Souls To Ourself But To Interpret Ourself To Ourself.

The Past And Future / Are Conquered, And Reconciled.

The Hippopotamus's Day Is Passed In Sleep; At Night He Hunts; God Works In A Mysterious Way- The Church Can Sleep And Feed At Once.

The Last Thing One Discovers In Composing A Work Is What To Put First.

Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

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.

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

It's Harder To Confess The Sin That No One Believes In Than The Crime That Everyone Can Appreciate. For The Crime Is In Relation To The Law And The Sin Is In Relation To The Sinner.

We Had The Experience But Missed The Meaning. And Approach To The Meaning Restores The Experience In A Different Form.

Shall I Part My Hair Behind? Do I Dare To Eat A Peach?

Poetry Is Not An Assertion Of Truth, But The Making Of That Truth More Fully Real To Us.

Winter Kept Us Warm, Covering Earth In Forgetful Snow

To Arrive Where You Are, To Get From Where You Are Not, You Must Go By A Way Wherein There Is No Ecstasy. In Order To Arrive At What You Do Not Know You Must Go By A Way Which Is The Way Of Ignorance. In Order To Possess What You Do Not Possess You Must Go By The Way Of Dispossession. In Order To Arrive At What You Are Not You Must Go Through The Way In Which You Are Not. And What You Do Not Know Is The Only Thing You Know And What You Own Is What You Do Not Own And Where You Are Is Where You Are Not.

Fading, Fading: Strength Beyond Hope And Despair Climbing The Third Stair. Lord, I Am Not Worthy Lord, I Am Not Worthy But Speak The Word Only.

It's Not Wise To Violate Rules Until You Know How To Observe Them.

My Greatest Trouble Is Getting The Curtain Up And Down.

The Circle Of Our Understanding Is A Very Restricted Area.

There Are Flood And Drought Over The Eyes And In The Mouth, Dead Water And Dead Sand Contending For The Upper Hand. The Parched Eviscerate Soil Gapes At The Vanity Of Toil, Laughs Without Mirth. This Is The Death Of The Earth.

A Woman Drew Her Long Black Hair Out Tight, And Fiddled Whisper Music On Those Strings, And Bats With Baby Faces In The Violet Light Whistled, And Beat Their Wings, And Crawled Head Downward Down A Blackened Wall.

Time Past And Time Future Allow But A Little Consciousness. To Be Conscious Is Not To Be In Time.

That Is The Worst Moment, When You Feel You Have Lost / The Desires For All That Was Most Desirable, / Before You Are Contented With What You Can Desire; / Before You Know What Is Left To Be Desired; / And You Go On Wishing That You Could Desire / What Desire Has Left Behind.

That Meddling In Other People's Affairs...formerly Conducted By The Most Discreet Intrigue Is Now Openly Advocated Under The Name Of Intervention.

The Endless Cycle Of Idea And Action, / Endless Invention, Endless Experiment, / Brings Knowledge Of Motion, But Not Of Stillness; / Knowledge Of Speech, But Not Of Silence; / Knowledge Of Words, And Ignorance Of The Word.

There Is Not A More Repulsive Spectacle Than On Old Man Who Will Not Forsake The World, Which Has Already Forsaken Him.

In Life There Is Not Time To Grieve Long.

The Lot Of Man Is Ceaseless Labor, Or Ceaseless Idleness, Which Is Still Harder.

Each Way Means Loneliness -- And Communion.

I Believe The Moment Of Birth Is When We Have Knowledge Of Death I Believe The Season Of Birth Is The Season Of Sacrifice.

Honest Criticism And Sensitive Appreciation Are Directed Not Upon The Poet But Upon The Poetry.

These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins

Friendship Should Be More Than Biting Time Can Sever.

Lost Friendship

War Among Men Defiles This World.

I Have Heard The Mermaids Singing, Each To Each. I Do Not Think That They Will Sing To Me.

A Wrong Attitude Toward Nature Implies, Somewhere, A Wrong Attitude Toward God.

There Is No Method But To Be Very Intelligent.

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.

Art Never Improves, But... The Material Of Art Is Never Quite The Same.

Ambition Fortifies The Will Of Man To Become Ruler Over Other Men: It Operates With Deception, Cajolery, And Violence, It Is The Action Of Impurity Upon Impurity.

A Philosophy Can And Must Be Worked Out With The Greatest Rigour And Discipline In The Details, But Can Ultimately Be Founded On Nothing But Faith: And This Is The Reason, I Suspect, Why The Novelties In Philosophy Are Only In Elaboration, And Never In Fundamentals.

Where Is The Knowledge We Have Lost In Information?

Too Much Information

I Should Have Been A Pair Of Ragged Claws/ Scuttling Across The Floors Of Silent Seas.

With Cats, Some Say, One Rule Is True: Don't Speak Till You Are Spoken To.

The Historical Sense Compels A Man To Write Not Merely With His Own Generation In His Bones, But With A Feeling That The Whole Of Literature From Homer And Within It The Whole Of The Literature Of His Own Country Has A Simultaneous Existence And Composes A Simultaneous Order.

We Do Not Quite Say That The New Is More Valuable Because It Fits In; But Its Fitting In Is A Test Of Its Value - A Test, It Is True, Which Can Only Be Slowly And Cautiously Applied, For We Are None Of Us Infallible Judges Of Conformity.

Not Only Every Great Poet, But Every Genuine, But Lesser Poet, Fulfils Once For All Some Possibility Of Language, And So Leaves One Possibility Less For His Successors.

Any Religion Is Forever In Danger Of Petrifaction Into Mere Ritual And Habit, Though Ritual And Habit Be Essential To Religion.

It Is Impossible To Design A System So Perfect That No One Needs To Be Good.

We Can Say Of Shakespeare, That Never Has A Man Turned So Little Knowledge To Such Great Account.

I Am Glad You Have A Cat, But I Do Not Believe It Is So Remarkable A Cat As My Cat.

The Church Must Be Forever Building, For It Is Forever Decaying Within And Attacked From Without.

The Chief Danger About Paris Is That It Is Such A Strong Stimulant.

In Order To Arrive At What You Are Not, You Must Go Through The Way In Which You Are Not.

After Such Knowledge, What Forgiveness? Think Now History Has Many Cunning Passages, Contrived Corridors And Issues, Deceives With Whispering Ambitions Guides Us By Vanities.

He Who Was Living Is Now Dead We Who Were Living Are Now Dying With A Little Patience.

Words Move, Music Moves Only In Time; But That Which Is Only Living Can Only Die. Words, After Speech, Reach Into The Silence. Only By The Form, The Pattern, Can Words Or Music Reach The Stillness.

Now That The Lilacs Are In Bloom She Has A Bowl Of Lilacs In Her Room

The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A Receptacle For Seizing And Storing Up Numberless Feelings, Phrases, Images, Which Remain There Until All The Particles Which Can Unite To Form A New Compound Are Present Together.

No! I Am Not Prince Hamlet, Nor Was Meant To Be; Am An Attendant Lord, One That Will Do To Swell A Progress, Start A Scene Or Two, Advise The Prince; No Doubt, An Easy Tool, Deferential, Glad To Be Of Use, Politic, Cautious, And Meticulous; Full Of High Sentence, But A Bit Obtuse; At Times, Indeed, Almost Ridiculous— Almost, At Times, The Fool.

The Naming Of Cats Is A Difficult Matter

Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.

A Thousand Policemen Directing Traffic Cannot Tell You Why You Come Or Where You Go.

No Place Of Grace For Those Who Avoid The Face. No Time To Rejoice For Those Who Walk Among Noise And Deny The Voice.

The Winter Evening Settles Down With Smell Of Steaks In Passageways. Six O'clock. The Burnt-out Ends Of Smoky Days. And Now A Gusty Shower Wraps The Grimy Scraps Of Withered Leaves About Your Feet And Newspapers From Vacant Lots; The Showers Beat On Broken Blinds And Chimney-pots, And At The Corner Of The Street A Lonely Cab-horse Steams And Stamps. And Then The Lighting Of The Lamps.

You Are The Music While The Music Lasts.

And All Shall Be Well And/ All Manner Of Thing Shall Be Well/ By The Purification Of The Motive/ In The Ground Of Our Beseeching

Amongst The Rock One Cannot Stop Or Think

Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.

That Is Not It At All, That Is Not What I Meant, At All.

We Might Remind Ourselves That Criticism Is As Inevitable As Breathing, And That We Should Be None The Worse For Articulating What Passes In Our Minds When We Read A Book And Feel An Emotion About It, For Criticizing Our Own Minds In Their Work Of Criticism.

The Role Of Art Is Not To Express The Personality But To Overcome It.

What Is True, Is True Only For One Time And Only For One Place.

To Justify Christian Morality Because It Provides A Foundation Of Morality, Instead Of Showing The Necessity Of Christian Morality From The Truth Of Christianity, Is A Very Dangerous Inversion.

If You Do Not Push The Boundaries, You Will Never Know Where They Are.

The Hint Half Guessed, The Gift Half Understood, Is Incarnation. Here The Impossible Union Of Spheres Of Existence Is Actual. Here The Past And Future Are Conquered And Reconciled.

No University Ought To Be Merely A National Institution....the Universities Should Have Their Common Ideals, They Should Have Their Common Obligations Toward Each Other. They Should Be Independent Of The Governments Of The Countries In Which They Are Situated. They Should Not Be Institutions For The Training Of An Efficient Bureaucracy, Or For Equipping Scientists To Get The Better Of Foreign Scientists; They Should Stand For The Preservation Of Learning, For The Pursuit Of Truth, And In So Far As Men Are Capable Of It, The Attainment Of Wisdom.

Distracted From Distraction By Distraction

Finding A Way To Live The Simple Life Is One Of Life's Supreme Complications.

What Have We Given? My Friend, Blood Shaking My Heart The Awful Daring Of A Moment's Surrender Which An Age Of Prudence Can Never Retract By This, And This Only, We Have Existed.

Liberty Is A Different Kind Of Pain From Prison.

For He Will Do As He Do Do And There's No Doing Anything About It!

The Majority Of Poems One Outgrows And Outlives, As One Outgrows And Outlives The Majority Of Human Passions.

I Do Not Know Much About Gods; But I Think That The River Is A Strong Brown God-sullen, Untamed And Intractable, Patient To Some Degree, At First Recognized As A Frontier; Useful, Untrustworthy, As A Conveyor Of Commerce; Then Only A Problem Confronting The Builder Of Bridges. The Problem Once Solved, The Brown God Is Almost Forgotten By The Dwellers In Cities-ever, However, Implacable. Keeping His Seasons, And Rages, Destroyer, Reminder Of What Men Choose To Forget. Unhonored, Unpropitiated By Worshippers Of The Machine, But Waiting, Watching And Waiting.

I Have Seen The Moment Of My Greatness Flicker, And I Have Seen The Eternal Footman Hold My Coat, And Snicker, And In Short, I Was Afraid.

Playwriting Gets Into Your Blood And You Can't Stop It. At Least Not Until The Producers Or The Public Tell You To.

Every End Is A Beginning...and Every Beginning Is An End.

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Disillusion Can Become Itself An Illusion If We Rest In It.

Disillusionment

A People Without History Is Not Redeemed From Time, For History Is A Pattern Of Timeless Moments.

After Such Knowledge, What Forgiveness?

In The Room The Women Come And Go Talking Of Michelangelo.

Some Editors Are Failed Writers, But So Are Most Writers.

Justice Itself Tends To Be Corrupted By Political Passion.

I Do Not Approve The Extermination Of The Enemy; The Policy Of Exterminating Or, As It Is Barbarously Said, Liquidating Enemies, Is One Of The Most Alarming Developments Of Modern War And Peace, From The Point Of View Of Those Who Desire The Survival

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Humankind Cannot Bear Very Much Reality.

April Is The Cruelest Month, Breeding Lilacs Out Of The Dead Land, Mixing Memory And Desire, Stirring Dull Roots With Spring Rain.

It Is Not Enough To Understand What We Ought To Be, Unless We Know What We Are; And We Do Not Understand What We Are, Unless We Know What We Ought To Be.

Desire Itself Is Movement Not In Itself Desirable; Love Is Itself Unmoving, Only The Cause And End Of Movement, Timeless, And Undesiring Except In The Aspect Of Time Caught In The Form Of Limitation Between Un-being And Being.

The Tiger Springs In The New Year. Us He Devours.

Sand. Everywhere. In The Bed, In The Shower, All Over The Floor. Grrrrr.

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. Through The Unknown, Remembered Gate When The Last Of Earth Left To Discover Is That Which Was The Beginning; At The Source Of The Longest River The Voice Of The Hidden Waterfall And The Children In The Apple-tree Not Known, Because Not Looked For But Heard, Half-heard, In The Stillness Between Two Waves Of The Sea.

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?

This Is One Moment, / But Know That Another / Shall Pierce You With A Sudden Painful Joy.

Sometimes Things Become Possible If We Want Them Bad Enough.

And Now You Live Dispersed On Ribbon Roads, And No Man Knows Or Cares Who Is His Neighbor Unless His Neighbor Makes Too Much Disturbance, But All Dash To And Fro In Motor Cars, Familiar With The Roads And Settled Nowhere.

Where There Is No Temple There Shall Be No Homes.

Where Is The Life We Lost In Living?

As Things Are, And As Fundamentally They Must Always Be, Poetry Is Not A Career, But A Mug's Game. No Honest Poet Can Ever Feel Quite Sure Of The Permanent Value Of What He Has Written: He May Have Wasted His Time And Messed Up His Life For Nothing.

The Very Existence Of Libraries Affords The Best Evidence That We May Yet Have Hope For The Future Of Man

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.

They Don't Understand What It Is To Be Awake, / To Be Living On Several Planes At Once / Though One Cannot Speak With Several Voices At Once.

Those Who Talk Of The Bible As A Monument Of English Prose Are Merely Admiring It As A Monument Over The Grave Of Christianity.

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