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I Would Meet You Upon This Honestly. I That Was Near Your Heart Was Removed Therefrom To Lose Beauty In Terror, Terror In Inquisition. I Have Lost My Passion: Why Should I Need To Keep It Since What Is Kept Must Be Adulterated? I Have Lost My Sight, Smell, Hearing, Taste And Touch: How Should I Use Them For Your Closer Contact?

-T. S. Eliot

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I Would Meet You

T. S. Eliot

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I Would Meet You Upon This Honestly. I That Was Near Your Heart Was Removed Therefrom To Lose Beauty In Terror, Terror In Inquisition. I Have Lost My Passion: Why Should I Need To Keep It Since What Is Kept Must Be Adulterated? I Have Lost My Sight, Smell, Hearing, Taste And Touch: How Should I Use Them For Your Closer Contact?

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We See The Light But See Not Whence It Comes. O Light Invisible, We Glorify Thee!

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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.

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People To Whom Nothing Has Ever Happened Cannot Understand The Unimportance Of Events.

For Us, There Is Only The Trying. The Rest Is Not Our Business.

Every Moment Is A Fresh Beginning.

If You Want It You Must Obtain It By Great Labor.

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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.

Humankind Cannot Bear Very Much Reality.

Writing Every Day Is A Way Of Keeping The Engine Running, And Then Something Good May Come Out Of It.

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

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.

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Justice Itself Tends To Be Corrupted By Political Passion.

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When Comparing Works Of Art, It Is Important That The Art Itself, And Not The Artists, Be Considered.

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Taking The Question In General, I Should Say, In The Case Of Many Poets, That The Most Important Thing For Them To Do ... Is To Write As Little As Possible

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Death Has A Hundred Hands And Walks By A Thousand Ways.

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.

I Do Not Believe That Any Writer Has Ever Exposed This Bovarysme, The Human Will To See Things As They Are Not, More Clearly Than Shakespeare.

Accident Is Design / And Design Is Accident / In A Cloud Of Unknowing.

Do I Dare Disturb The Universe?

And They Write Innumerable Books; Being Too Vain And Distracted For Silence: Seeking Every One After His Own Elevation, And Dodging His Emptiness.

When A Poet's Mind Is Perfectly Equipped For Its Work, It Is Constantly Amalgamating Disparate Experience ?in The Mind Of The Poet These Experiences Are Always Forming New Wholes.

So First, Your Memory I'll Jog, And Say: A Cat Is Not A Dog

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Love Compels Cruelty To Those Who Do Not Understand Love.

Can We Only Love Something Created In Our Own Imaginations? Are We All In Fact Unloving And Unloveable? Then One Is Alone, And If One Is Alone Then Lover And Beloved Are Equally Unreal And The Dreamer Is No More Real Than His Dreams.

Not Less Of Love, But Expanding Of Love Beyond Desire, And So Liberation From The Future As Well As The Past.

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. All Our Knowledge Brings Us Nearer To Our Ignorance, All Our Ignorance Brings Us Nearer To Death, But Nearness To Death No Nearer To God. 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? The Cycles Of Heaven In Twenty Centuries Bring Us Farther From God And Nearer To The Dust.

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All Our Knowledge Brings Us Nearer To Our Ignorance.

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Till Human Voices Wake Us, And We Drown.

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

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Where There Is No Temple There Shall Be No Homes.

You Have Learned Enough To See That Cats Are Much Like You And Me.

We Do Not Pass Twice Through The Same Door Or Return To The Door Through Which We Did Not Pass.

It Is Impossible To Say Just What I Mean!

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Old Men Ought To Be Explorers.

Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

One Starts An Action Simply Because One Must Do Something.

Shall I Part My Hair Behind Do I Dare To Eat A Peach I Shall Wear White Flannel Trousers, And Walk Upon The Beach. I Have Heard The Mermaids Singing, Each To Each. I Do Not Think That They Will Sing To Me.

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There Is No Escape From Metre; There Is Only Mastery.

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I Hate University Towns And University People, Who Are The Same Everywhere, With Pregnant Wives, Sprawling Children, Many Books And Hideous Pictures On The Walls ... Oxford Is Very Pretty, But I Don't Like To Be Dead.

For Last Year's Words Belong To Last Year's Language And Next Year's Words Await Another Voice.

As We Grow Older, The World Becomes Stranger, The Pattern More Complicated Of Dead And Living.

Shape Without Form, Shade Without Color, Paralyzed Force, Gesture Without Motion; Those Who Have Crossed With Direct Eyes, To Death's Other Kingdom Remember Us-if At All-not As Lost Violent Souls, But Only As The Hollow Men The Stuffed Men.

If We Really Want To Pray We Must First Learn To Listen, For In The Silence Of The Heart God Speaks.

Those Who Arrive At The End Of The Journey Are Not Those Who Began.

Destiny Waits In The Hand Of God, Not In The Hands Of Statesmen.

We Must Learn To Suffer More.

Can We Only Love Something Created In Our Own Imaginations?

Most Contemporary Novels Are Not Really "written." They Obtain What Reality They Have Largely From An Accurate Rendering Of The Noises That Human Beings Currently Make In Their Daily Simple Needs Of Communication; And What Part Of A Novel Is Not Composed Of These Noises Consists Of A Prose Which Is No More Alive Than That Of A Competent Newspaper Writer Or Government Official. A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands Something Of The Reader That The Ordinary Novel-reader Is Not Prepared To Give.

Envy Is Everywhere. Who Is Without Envy? And Most People Are Unaware Or Unashamed Of Being Envious.

The Progress Of An Artist Is A Continual Self-sacrifice, A Continual Extinction Of Personality.

My Name Is Only An Anagram Of Toilets.

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

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

I Take As Metaphysical Poetry That In Which What Is Ordinarily Apprehensible Only By Thought Is Brought Within The Grasp Of Feeling, Or That In Which What Is Ordinarily Only Felt Is Transformed Into Thought Without Ceasing To Be Feeling.

Lady Of Silences Calm And Distressed Torn And Most Whole Rose Of Memory Rose Of Forgetfulness Exhausted And Life-giving Worried Reposeful The Single Rose Is Now The Garden Where All Loves End Terminate Torment Of Love Unsatisfied The Greater Torment Of Love Satisfied End Of The Endless Journey To No End Conclusion Of All That Is Inconclusible Speech Without Word And Word Of No Speech Grace To The Mother For The Garden Where All Love Ends.

Poetry May Make Us From Time To Time A Little More Aware Of The Deeper, Unnamed Feelings Which Form The Substratum Of Our Being, To Which We Rarely Penetrate; For Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves.

Talent Imitates, But Genius Steals.

The Business Of The Poet Is Not To Find New Emotions, But To Use The Ordinary Ones And, In Working Them Up Into Poetry, To Express Feelings Which Are Not In Actual Emotions At All.

Our Difficulties Of The Moment Must Always Be Dealt With Somehow, But Our Permanent Difficulties Are Difficulties Of Every Moment.

And Went On In Sunlight, Into The Hofgarten, And Drank Coffee, And Talked For An Hour.

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.

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

Stand On The Highest Pavement Of The Stair- Lean On A Garden Urn- Weave, Weave The Sunlight In Your Hair.

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

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