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One Thing You Cannot Know: The Sudden Extinction Of Every Alternative, The Unexpected Crash Of The Iron Cataract. You Do Not Know What Hope Is, Until You Have Lost It. You Only Know What It Is Not To Hope: You Do Not Know What It Is To Have Hope Taken From You Or To Fling It Away, To Join The Legion Of The Hopeless Unrecognized By Other Men, Though Sometimes By Each Other.

-T. S. Eliot

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One Thing You Cannot

T. S. Eliot

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One Thing You Cannot Know: The Sudden Extinction Of Every Alternative, The Unexpected Crash Of The Iron Cataract. You Do Not Know What Hope Is, Until You Have Lost It. You Only Know What It Is Not To Hope: You Do Not Know What It Is To Have Hope Taken From You Or To Fling It Away, To Join The Legion Of The Hopeless Unrecognized By Other Men, Though Sometimes By Each Other.

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His Laughter Tinkled Among The Teacups.

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This Is The Way The World Ends, Not With A Bang, But A Whimper.

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.

Love Is Most Nearly Itself When Here And Now Cease To Matter. Old Men Ought To Be Explorers Here Or There Does Not Matter We Must Be Still And Still Moving Into Another Intensity For A Further Union, A Deeper Communion Through The Dark Cold And The Empty Desolation, The Wave Cry, The Wind Cry, The Vast Waters Of The Petrel And The Porpoise.

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

Who Is The Third Who Walks Always Beside You? When I Count, There Are Only You And I Together But When I Look Ahead Up The White Road There Is Always Another One Walking Beside You Gliding Wrapt In A Brown Mantle, Hooded I Do Not Know Whether A Man Or A Woman -but Who Is That On The Other Side Of You?

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.

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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Talent Imitates, Genius Steals.

If You Desire To Drain To The Dregs The Fullest Cup Of Scorn And Hatred That A Fellow Human Being Can Pour Out For You, Let A Young Mother Hear You Call Dear Baby 'it.'

But What Have I, But What Have I, My Friend, To Give You, What Can You Receive From Me? Only The Friendship And The Sympathy Of One About To Reach Her Journey's End.

In A World Of Fugitives, The Person Taking The Opposite Direction Will Appear To Run Away.

Webster Was Much Possessed By Death And Saw The Skull Beneath The Skin.

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.

The Past And Future / Are Conquered, And Reconciled.

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

Cats Must Have Three Names-an Everyday Name, Such As Peter; A More Particular, Dignified Name, Such As Quaxo, Bombalurina, Or Jellylorum; And, Thirdly, The Name The Cat Thinks Up For Himself, His Deep And Inscrutable Singular Name.

What A Poem Means Is As Much What It Means To Others As What It Means To The Author; And Indeed, In The Course Of Time A Poet May Become Merely Reader In Respect To His Own Works, Forgetting His Original Meaning.

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?

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

Simple And Faithless As A Smile And Shake Of The Hand.

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.

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.

The Journey, Not The Destination Matters.

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When A Cat Adopts You, And I Am Not Superstitious At All I Don't Mean Only Black Cats There Is Nothing To Be Done About It Except To Put Up With It And Wait Until The Wind Changes.

But The Church Cannot Be, In Any Political Sense, Either Conservative Or Liberal, Or Revolutionary. Conservatism Is Too Often Conservation Of The Wrong Things: Liberalism A Relaxation Of Discipline; Revolution A Denial Of The Permanent Things.

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To Become What You Are Not, Behave As You Do Not.

The Naming Of Cats Is A Difficult Matter. It Isn't Just One Of Your Holiday Games. You May Think At First I'm Mad As A Hatter. When I Tell You A Cat Must Have Three Different Names.

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After Such Knowledge, What Forgiveness?

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Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.

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My Greatest Trouble Is Getting The Curtain Up And Down.

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

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Because These Wings Are No Longer Wings To Fly But Merely Vans To Beat The Air The Air Which Is Now Thoroughly Small And Dry Smaller And Dryer Than The Will Teach Us To Care And Not To Care Teach Us To Sit Still

Bad Poets Imitate, Good Poets Steal.

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

Where Is The Knowledge We Have Lost In Information?

Too Much Information

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.

I Do Not Know Much About Gods; But I Think That The River Is A Strong Brown God-sullen, Untamed And Intractable.

And Right Action Is Freedom From Past And Future Also.

All Our Knowledge Brings Us Nearer To Our Ignorance.

Time For You And Time For Me, And Time Yet For A Hundred Indecisions, And For A Hundred Visions And Revisions, Before The Taking Of A Toast And Tea.

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

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...the Still Point In A Turning World.

O Dark Dark Dark. They All Go Into The Dark, The Vacant Interstellar Spaces, The Vacant Into The Vacant

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

There Will Be Time To Murder And Create.

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

Thought Provoking

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

My Life Is Light, Waiting For The Death Wind, Like A Feather On The Back Of My Hand.

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

The Darkness Declares The Glory Of Light.

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

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

Here Between The Hither And The Farther Shore While Time Is Withdrawn, Consider The Future And The Past With An Equal Mind.

Life Is Long Between The Desire And The Spasm.

And Indeed There Will Be Time To Wonder, 'do I Dare?', And 'do I Dare?

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

In The Last Few Years Everything I'd Done Up To Sixty Or So Has Seemed Very Childish.

Footfalls Echo In The Memory, Down The Passage We Did Not Take, Towards The Door We Never Opened, Into The Rose Garden.

Till Human Voices Wake Us, And We Drown.

My Nerves Are Bad To-night. Yes, Bad. Stay With Me. 'speak To Me. Why Do You Never Speak? Speak. 'what Are You Thinking Of? What Thinking? What? 'i Never Know What You Are Thinking. Think.

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

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Intense Moments

Before And After

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

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Neither Way Is Better. / Both Ways Are Necessary. / It Is Also Necessary / To Make A Choice Between Them.

Every Phrase And Every Sentence Is An End And A Beginning, Every Poem An Epitaph.

Men Tighten The Knot Of Confusion Into Perfect Misunderstanding.

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

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Intense Moments

Justice Itself Tends To Be Corrupted By Political Passion.

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.

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.

Only By Acceptance Of The Past, Can You Alter It

A Good Half Of The Effort Of Understanding What The Indian Philosophers Were After - And Their Subtleties Make Most Of The Great European Philosophers Look Like Schoolboys.

When The Whole World Is Running Headlong Towards The Precipice, One Who Walks In The Opposite Direction Is Looked At As Being Crazy.

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

There Is No Absolute Point Of View From Which Real And Ideal Can Be Finally Separated And Labelled.

Composing On The Typewriter, I Find That I Am Sloughing Off All My Long Sentences Which I Used To Dote Upon. Short, Staccato, Like Modern French Prose. The Typewriter Makes For Lucidity, But I Am Not Sure That It Encourages Subtlety.

Should I, After Tea And Cakes And Ices, Have The Strength To Force The Moment To Its Crisis? But Though I Have Wept And Fasted, Wept And Prayed, Though I Have Seen My Head (grown Slightly Bald) Brought In Upon A Platter, I Am No Prophet--and Here's No Great Matter; I Have Seen The Moment Of My Greatness Flicker, I Have Seen The Eternal Footman Hold My Coat, And Snicker, And In Short, I Was Afraid.

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

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.

Half Of The Harm That Is Done In This World Is Due To People Who Want To Feel Important. They Don't Mean To Do Harm. But The Harm Does Not Interest Them.

Hungry Hatred, Will Not Strive Against Intelligence Self-interest.

War Among Men Defiles This World.

Time Present And Time Past Are Both Perhaps Present In Time Future, And Time Future Contained In Time Past. If All Time Is Eternally Present All Time Is Unredeemable.

Between The Conception And The Creation, Between The Emotion And The Response, Falls The Shadow.

The Ordinary Man's Experience Is Chaotic, Irregular, Fragmentary. [he] 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

Falling In Love

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Stealing Things

To Make An End Is To Make A Beginning.

All Time Is Eternal, Moving Inexorably Toward An End Which We Believe Is A Result Of Our Actions, But Over Which Our Control Is Mere Illusion.

Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.

I Am No Prophet-and Here's No Great Matter.

A Play Should Give You Something To Think About. When I See A Play And Understand It The First Time, Then I Know It Can't Be Much Good.

Here Were Decent Godless People; Their Only Monument The Asphalt Road And A Thousand Lost Golf Balls.

Because I Know That Time Is Always Time And Place Is Always Place And Only Place. And What Is Actual Is Actual Only For One Time. And Only For One Place. I Rejoice That Things Are As They Are.

The More Perfect The Artist, The More Completely Separate In Him Will Be The Man Who Suffers And The Mind Which Creates.

At The Beach - Time You Enjoyed Wasting, Is Not Wasted.

Not Wasting Time

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.

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

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Only Through Time Time Is Conquered

There Is No Method But To Be Very Intelligent.

Past Art Is Subject To Change.

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

Dante And Shakespeare Divide The World Between Them. There Is No Third.

It Will Do You No Harm To Find Yourself Ridiculous. Resign Yourself To Be The Fool You Are... ...we Must Always Take Risks. That Is Our Destiny.

Finding Yourself

All Time Is Unreedemable.

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In Life There Is Not Time To Grieve Long.

Everyone's Alone - Or So It Seems To Me. They Make Noises, And Think They Are Talking To Each Other; They Make Faces, And Think They Understand Each Other. And I'm Sure They Don't. Is That A Delusion?

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.

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

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If One Has To Earn A Living, Therefore, The Safest Occupation Is That Most Remote From The Arts.

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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 Only Way Of Expressing Emotion In The Form Of Art Is By Finding An "objective Correlative"; In Other Words, A Set Of Objects, A Situation, A Chain Of Events Which Shall Be The Formula For That Particular Emotion; Such That When The External Facts, Which Must Terminate In Sensory Experience, Are Given, The Emotion Is Immediately Evoked.

In The Mountains, There You Feel Free.

I Can Connect Nothing With Nothing

The Name That No Human Research Can Discover-- But The Cat Himself Knows, And Will Never Confess. When You Notice A Cat In Profound Meditation, The Reason, I Tell You, Is Always The Same: His Mind Is Engaged In A Rapt Contemplation Of The Thought, Of The Thought, Of The Thought Of His Name: His Ineffable Effable Effanineffable Deep And Inscrutable Singular Name.

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

All Cases Are Unique And Very Similar To Others.

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.

Wait Without Thought, For You Are Not Ready For Thought.

When We Read Of Human Beings Behaving In Certain Ways, With The Approval Of The Author, Who Gives His Benediction To This Behavior By His Attitude Towards The Result Of The Behavior Arranged By Himself, We Can Be Influenced Towards Behaving In The Same Way.

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

Any Poet, If He Is To Survive Beyond His 25th Year, Must Alter; He Must Seek New Literary Influences; He Will Have Different Emotions To Express.

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.

We Know Too Much, And Are Convinced Of Too Little. Our Literature Is A Substitute For Religion, And So Is Our Religion.

If The Lost Word Is Lost, If The Spent Word Is Spent If The Unheard, Unspoken Word Is Unspoken, Unheard; Still Is The Spoken Word, The Word Unheard, The Word Without A Word, The Word Within The World And For The World; And The Light Shone In The Darkness And Against The Word The Unstilled World Still Whirled About The Center Of The Silent Word. Oh My People, What Have I Done Unto Thee. Where Shall The Word Be Found, Where Shall The Word Resound? Not Here, There Is Not Enough Silence

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

Men Live By Forgetting And Woman Live On Memories.

Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

Think Neither Fear Nor Courage Saves Us. Unnatural Vices Are Fathered By Our Heroism. Virtues Are Forced Upon Us By Our Impudent Crimes. These Tears Are Shaken From The Wrath-bearing Tree.

The End Of All Our Exploring Will Be To Arrive Where We Started.

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.

The Purpose Of A Christian Education Would Not Be Merely To Make Men And Women Pious Christians: A System Which Aimed Too Rigidly At This End Alone Would Become Only Obscurantist. A Christian Education Must Primarily Teach People To Be Able To Think In Christian Categories.

I Have Measured Out My Life With Coffee Spoons.

There's No Vocabulary For Love Within A Family, Love That's Lived In But Not Looked At, Love Within The Light Of Which All Else Is Seen, The Love Within Which All Other Love Finds Speech. This Love Is Silent.

Artistic Inevitability Lies In The Complete Adequacy Of The External To The Emotion.

Home Is Where One Starts From.

Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves, And Of Our Visible, Sensible World.

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

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

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