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The Rum Turn Tugger Is A Terrible Bore: When You Let Him In, Then He Wants To Be Out; He's Always On The Wrong Side Of Every Door, And As Soon As He's At Home, Then He'd Like To Get About.

-T. S. Eliot

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The Rum Turn Tugger

T. S. Eliot

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The Rum Turn Tugger Is A Terrible Bore: When You Let Him In, Then He Wants To Be Out; He's Always On The Wrong Side Of Every Door, And As Soon As He's At Home, Then He'd Like To Get About.

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He Laughed Like An Irresponsible Foetus.

I Say To You: Make Perfect Your Will. / I Say: Take No Thought Of The Harvest, / But Only Of Proper Sowing.

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

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

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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.

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

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.

I Must Say Bernard Shaw Is Greatly Improved By Music.

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

For You Know Only A Heap Of Broken Images

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

In The Faint Moonlight, The Grass Is Singing

We Ask Only To Be Reassured About The Noises In The Cellar And The Window That Should Not Have Been Open

Where Shall The Word Be Found, Where Will The Word / Resound? Not Here, There Is Not Enough Silence.

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.

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

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.

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.

Distracted From Distraction By Distraction

A Crowd Flowed Over London Bridge, So Many, I Had Not Thought Death Had Undone So Many.

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

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.

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Talent Imitates, Genius Steals.

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It Is Only In The World Of Objects That We Have Time And Space And Selves.

Only Those Who Will Risk Going Too Far Can Possibly Find Out How Far One Can Go.

Never Commit Yourself To A Cheese Without Having First Examined It.

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I Had Seen Birth And Death But Had Thought They Were Different.

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Every Moment Is A New And Shocking Transvaluation Of All We Have Ever Been.

Love Compels Cruelty To Those Who Do Not Understand Love.

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So I Find Words I Never Thought To Speak In Streets I Never Thought I Should Revisit When I Left My Body On A Distant Shore.

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The Single Rose Is Now The Garden Where All Loves End

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Paint Me The Bold Anfractuous Rocks Faced By The Snarled And Yelping Seas.

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

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His Laughter Tinkled Among The Teacups.

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I Can Connect Nothing With Nothing

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So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.

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

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

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No Artist Produces Great Art By A Deliberate Attempt To Express His Own Personality.

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

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

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If We All Were Judged According To The Consequences Of All Our Words And Deeds, Beyond The Intention And Beyond Our Limited Understanding Of Ourselves And Others, We Should All Be Condemned.

Can We Only Love Something Created In Our Own Imaginations?

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.

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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.

Old Men Ought To Be Explorers.

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

With A Poem You Can Say 'i Got My Feeling Into Words For Myself. I Now Have The Equivalent In Words For That Much Of What I Have Felt.'

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

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

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

We Are The Hollow Men We Are The Stuffed Men Leaning Together...

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No Poet, No Artist Of Any Art, Has His Complete Meaning Alone.

Individual Talent

We Had The Experience, But We Missed The Meaning.

The True Church Can Never Fail. For It Is Based Upon A Rock.

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

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I Love Reading Another Reader’s List Of Favorites. Even When I Find I Do Not Share Their Tastes Or Predilections, I Am Provoked To Compare, Contrast, And Contradict. It Is A Most Healthy Exercise, And One Altogether Fruitful.

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Men Dislike Being Awakened From Their Death In Life.

Each Way Means Loneliness -- And Communion.

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.

And The Lost Heart Stiffens And Rejoices In The Lost Lilac And The Lost Sea Voices And The Weak Spirit Quickens To Rebel For The Bent Golden-rod And The Lost Sea Smell Quickens To Recover.

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

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

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.

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

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.

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.

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

Amongst The Rock One Cannot Stop Or Think

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.

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.

You Must Not On Any Account Give Me Credit For Being Penetrating. I Have Impressed People That Way Before, And The Result Is Always Disaster.

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.

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.

When A Great Poet Has Lived, Certain Things Have Been Done Once For All, And Cannot Be Achieved Again.

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.

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.

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.

As She Laughed I Was Aware Of Becoming Involved In Her Laughter And Being Part Of It, Until Her Teeth Were Only Accidental Stars With A Talent For Squad-drill.

A National Culture, If It Is To Flourish, Should Be A Constellation Of Cultures, The Constitutes Of Which, Benefiting Each Other, Benefit The Whole.

And Indeed There Will Be Time For The Yellow Smoke That Slides Along The Street Rubbing Its Back Upon The Window-panes; There Will Be Time , There Will Be Time To Prepare A Face To Meet The Faces That You Meet; There Will Be Time To Murder And Create, And Time For All The Works And Days Of Hands That Lift And Drop A Question On Your Plate; 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 Toast And Tea.

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

Justice Itself Tends To Be Corrupted By Political Passion.

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.

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

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.

Yet With These April Sunsets, That Somehow Recall My Buried Life, And Paris In The Spring, I Feel Immeasurably At Peace, And Find The World To Be Wonderful And Youthful Afterall

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

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

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

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?

Someone Said, 'the Dead Writers Are Remote From Us Because We Know So Much More Than They Did.' Precisely, And They Are That Which We Know.

In The Life Of One Man, Never The Same Time Returns.

Knowledge Is Invariably A Matter Of Degree: You Cannot Put Your Finger Upon Even The Simplest Datum And Say This We Know.

When Oxygen And Sulphur Dioxide Are Mixed In The Presence Of A Filiament Of Platinum, They Form Sulphurous Acid. This Combination Takes Place Only If The Platinum Is Present; Nevertheless The Newly Formed Acid Contains No Trace Of Platinum, And The Platinum Itself Is Apparently Unaffected: Has Remained Inert, Neutral, And Unchanged. The Mind Of The Poet Is The Shred Of Platinum.

When Forced To Work Within A Strict Framework, The Imagination Is Taxed To Its Utmost And Will Produce Its Richest Ideas. Given Total Freedom, The Work Is Likely To Sprawl.

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.

O Father, Father Gone From Us, Lost To Us, The Church Lies Bereft, Alone, Desecrated, Desolated. And The Heathen Shall Build On The Ruins Their World Without God. I See It. I See It.

He Had A Mind So Fine That No Idea Could Violate It

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

That Was My Way Of Putting It-not Very Satisfactory: A Periphrastic Study In A Worn-out Poetical Fashion, Leaving One Still With The Intolerable Wrestle With Words And Meanings.

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.

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.

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

All Significant Truths Are Private Truths. As They Become Public They Cease To Become Truths; They Become Facts, Or At Best, Part Of The Public Character; Or At Worst, Catchwords.

Think Not Forever Of Yourselves, O Chiefs, Nor Of Your Own Generation. Think Of Continuing Generations Of Our Families, Think Of Our Grandchildren And Of Those Yet Unborn, Whose Faces Are Coming From Beneath The Ground.

Native American

The Remarkable Thing About Television Is That It Permits Several Million People To Laugh At The Same Joke And Still Feel Lonely.

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

The Soul Of Man Must Quicken To Creation.

April Is The Cruellest Month.

Where Is The Life We Lost In Living?

I Was Too Slow A Mover To Be A Boxer. It Was Much Easier To Be A Poet.

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

If All Time Is Eternally Present, All Time Is Unredeemable

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

Nothing Pleases People More Than To Go On Thinking What They Have Always Thought, And At The Same Time Imagine That They Are Thinking Something New And Daring: It Combines The Advantage Of Security And The Delight Of Adventure.

Turning Wearily, As One Would Turn To Nod Goodbye To Rochefoucauld, If The Street Were Time And He As The End Of The Street.

Destiny ... A Word Which Means More Than We Can Find Any Definitions For. It Is A Word Which Can Have No Meaning In A Mechanical Universe: If That Which Is Wound Up Must Run Down, What Destiny Is There In That? Destiny Is Not Necessitarianism, And It Is Not Caprice: It Is Something Essentially Meaningful. Each Man Has His Destiny, Though Some Men Are Undoubtedly "men Of Destiny" In A Sense In Which Most Men Are Not.

The Winter Evening Settles Down With Smell Of Steaks In Passageways.

The End Is In The Beginning.

We Should Not Confuse Information With Knowledge.

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

Uncorseted, Her Friendly Bust Gives Promise Of Pneumatic Bliss.

We Can At Least Try To Understand Our Own Motives, Passions, And Prejudices, So As To Be Conscious Of What We Are Doing When We Apeal To Those Of Others. This Is Very Difficult, Because Our Own Prejudice And Emotional Bias Always Seems To Us So Rational.

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.

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

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

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.

I Have Measured Out My Life With Coffee Spoons.

Words Strain, Crack, And Sometime Break, Under The Burden.

What We Call The Beginning Is Often The End. And To Make An End Is To Make A Beginning. The End Is Where We Start From.

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

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

A Tradition Without Intelligence Is Not Worth Having.

You Do Not Know How Much They Mean To Me, My Friends, And How, How Rare And Strange It Is, To Find In A Life Composed So Much, So Much Of Odds And Ends, (for Indeed I Do Not Love It ... You Knew? You Are Not Blind! How Keen You Are!) To Find A Friend Who Has These Qualities, Who Has, And Gives Those Qualities Upon Which Friendship Lives. How Much It Means That I Say This To You- Without These Friendships-life, What Cauchemar!

I Must Tell You That I Should Really Like To Think There's Something Wrong With Me- Because, If There Isn't, Then There's Something Wrong With The World Itself-and That's Much More Frightening! That Would Be Terrible. So I'd Rather Believe There Is Something Wrong With Me, That Could Be Put Right.

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.

[on The Waste Land:] Various Critics Have Done Me The Honor To Interpret The Poem In Terms Of Criticism Of The Contemporary World, Have Considered It, Indeed, As An Important Bit Of Social Criticism. To Me It Was Only The Relief Of A Personal And Wholly Insignificant Grouse Against Life; It Is Just A Piece Of Rhythmical Grumbling.

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

The Rats Are Underneath The Piles/ The Jew Is Underneath The Lot.

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

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

It Is Self-evident That St. Louis Affected Me More Deeply Than Any Other Environment Has Ever Done. I Feel That There Is Something In Having Passed One's Childhood Beside The Big River, Which Is Incommunicable To Those People Who Have Not. I Consider Myself Fortunate To Have Been Born Here, Rather Than In Boston, Or New York, Or London.

People Find A Way In Which They Can Say Something.

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