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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.

-T. S. Eliot

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We Can At Least

T. S. Eliot

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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.

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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?

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

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

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

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 Definition Of Hell Is A Place Where Nothing Connects With Nothing.

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.

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

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

And The End And The Beginning Were Always There Before The Beginning And After The End.

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.

Genuine Blasphemy, Genuine In Spirit And Not Purely Verbal, Is The Product Of Partial Belief, And Is As Impossible To The Complete Atheist As To The Perfect Christian.

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.

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

Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

It Takes So Many Years To Learn That One Is Dead.

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.

The Only Hope, Or Else Despair Lies In The Choice Of Pyre Or Pyre - To Be Redeemed From Fire By Fire.

Business Today Consists In Persuading Crowds.

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.

Cling, Swing, Spring, Sing, Swing Up Into The Apple Tree.

Gradually We Come To Admit That Shakespeare Understands A Greater Extent And Variety Of Human Life Than Dante; But That Dante Understands Deeper Degrees Of Degradation And Higher Degrees Of Exaltation.

Talent Imitates, Genius Steals.

No One Can Become Really Educated Without Having Pursued Some Study In Which He Took No Interest- For It Is A Part Of Education To Learn To Interest Ourselves In Subjects For Which We Have No Aptitude.

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.

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.

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

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.

As A Rule, With Me An Unfinished [idea] Is A Thing That Might As Well Be Rubbed Out. It's Better, If There's Something Good In It That I Might Make Use Of Elsewhere, To Leave It At The Back Of My Mind Than On Paper In A Drawer. If I Leave It In A Drawer It Remains The Same Thing But If It's In The Memory It Becomes Transformed Into Something Else.

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

The Fool,fixed In His Folly,may Think He Can Turn The Wheel On Which He Turns.

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

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.

There Is No Such Thing As A Lost Cause, Because There Is No Such Thing As A Gained Cause

I Am Tired With My Own Life And The Lives Of Those After Me, I Am Dying In My Own Death And The Deaths Of Those After Me.

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

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

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

People Find A Way In Which They Can Say Something.

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

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.

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In The Mountains, There You Feel Free.

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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.

We Have Lingered In The Chambers Of The Sea By Sea-girls Wreathed With Seaweed Red And Brown Till Human Voices Wake Us... And We Drown.

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This Is The Feeling For Syllable And Rhythm, Penetrating Far Below The Conscious Levels Of Thought And Feeling, Invigorating Every Word.

There Will Be Time, There Will Be Time To Prepare A Face To Meet The Faces That You Meet.

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Life Is Long Between The Desire And The Spasm.

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

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My Greatest Trouble Is Getting The Curtain Up And Down.

Humankind Can't Stand Too Much Reality.

The End Is Where We Start From.

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I Am Moved By Fancies That Are Curled, Around These Images And Cling, The Notion Of Some Infinitely Gentle, Infinitely Suffering Thing.

The Only Wisdom We Can Hope To Acquire Is The Wisdom Of Humility: Humility Is Endless. The Houses Are All Gone Under The Sea. The Dancers Are All Gone Under The Hill.

And Through The Spaces Of The Dark Midnight Shakes The Memory As A Madman Shakes A Dead Geranium.

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Stealing Things

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There Is No Method But To Be Very Intelligent.

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In The Faint Moonlight, The Grass Is Singing

If You Will Not Have God (and He Is A Jealous God), You Should Pay Your Respects To Hitler Or Stalin.

We Fight For Lost Causes Because We Know That Our Defeat And Dismay May Be The Preface To Our Successors' Victory, Though That Victory Itself Will Be Temporary; We Fight Rather To Keep Something Alive Than In The Expectation That Anything Will Triumph.

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

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

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.

My Mind May Be American But My Heart Is British.

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Were Meant To Be

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

It Is Impossible To Say Just What I Mean!

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

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

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

People Are Only Influenced In The Direction In Which They Want To Go, And Influence Consists Largely In Making Them Conscious Of Their Wishes To Proceed In That Direction.

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

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.

If We Are Moved By A Poem, It Has Meant Something, Perhaps Something Important, To Us; If We Are Not Moved, Then It Is, As Poetry, Meaningless.

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

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

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

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.

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.

For Every Life And Every Act Consequence Of Good And Evil Can Be Shown And As In Time Results Of Many Deeds Are Blended So Good And Evil In The End Become Confounded.

...the Still Point In A Turning World.

Whatever You Do, Don't Whimper, But Take The Consequences.

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

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.

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

All Our Knowledge Brings Us Nearer To Our Ignorance.

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.

The Darkness Declares The Glory Of Light.

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.

Words Strain, Crack And Sometimes Break, Under The Burden, Under The Tension, Slip, Slide, Perish, Decay With Imprecision, Will Not Stay In Place, Will Not Stay Still.

Past Art Is Subject To Change.

For You Know Only A Heap Of Broken Images

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

The Circle Of Our Understanding Is A Very Restricted Area.

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

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

My Name Is Only An Anagram Of Toilets.

Cold Mountain Buddhas Han Shan Wait Without Thought, For You Are Not Ready For Thought: So The Darkness Shall Be The Light, And The Stillness Be Dancing. Whisper Of Running Streams, And Winter Lightning. The Wild Thyme Unseen And The Wild Strawberry, The Laughter In The Garden, Echoed Ecstasy Not Lost, But Requiring, Pointing To The Agony Of Death And Birth.

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

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

All Time Is Unreedemable.

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

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.

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

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

We Have All Our Private Terrors, Our Particular Shadows, Our Secret Fears. We Are Afraid In A Fear Which We Cannot Face, Which None Understands, And Our Hearts Are Torn From Us, Our Brains Unskinned Like The Layers Of An Onion, Ourselves The Last.

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

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

I Am Glad You Have A Cat, But I Do Not Believe It Is So Remarkable A Cat As My Cat. My Cat Is A Lilliecat Hubvously. What A Lilliecat It Is. There Never Was Such A Lilliecat. Its Name Is Jellyorum And Its One Idea Is To Be Usefull!!

These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins

We Had The Experience, But We Missed The Meaning.

Human Kind Cannot Bear Much Reality.

His Laughter Tinkled Among The Teacups.

O Lord, Deliver Me From The Man Of Excellent Intention And Impure Heart: For The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things, And Desperately Wicked.

These Are Only Hints And Guesses, Hints Followed By Guesses; And The Rest Is Prayer, Observance, Discipline, Thought And Action.

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

I Don't Believe One Grows Older. I Think That What Happens Early On In Life Is That At A Certain Age One Stands Still And Stagnates.

We Must Learn To Suffer More.

The Eastern Light Our Spires Touch At Morning, The Light That Slants Upon Our Western Doors At Evening, The Twilight Over Stagnant Pools At Batflight, Moon Light And Star Light, Owl And Moth Light, Glow-worm Glowlight On A Grassblade. O Light Invisible, We Worship Thee!

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

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.

The Civil War Is Not Ended: I Question Whether Any Serious Civil War Ever Does End.

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

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

No Scheme For A Change Of Society Can Be Made To Appear Immediately Palatable, Except By Falsehood, Until Society Has Become So Desperate That It Will Accept Any 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.

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.

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

All Cases Are Unique And Very Similar To Others.

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

I Learn A Great Deal By Merely Observing You, And Letting You Talk As Long As You Please, And Taking Note Of What You Do Not Say.

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

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

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

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.'

Do I Dare Disturb The Universe?

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

Thought Provoking

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

A Toothache, Or A Violent Passion, Is Not Necessarily Diminished By Our Knowledge Of Its Causes, Its Character, Its Importance Or Insignificance.

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.

We Must Always Take Risks. That Is Our Destiny.

All Art Emulates The Condition Of Ritual. That Is What It Comes From And To That It Must Always Return For Nourishment.

Only Through Time Time Is Conquered

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

A Cold Coming We Had Of It, Just The Worst Time Of The Year For A Journey, And Such A Long Journey: The Ways Deep And The Weather Sharp, The Very Dead Of Winter.

Again I Must Remind You That A Dog's A Dog-a Cat's A Cat.

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.

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.

Liberty Is A Different Kind Of Pain From Prison.

Redeem The Time. Redeem The Unread Vision Of A Higher Dream.

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

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

Where Is The Life We Lost In Living?

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

With Cats, Some Say, One Rule Is True: Don’t Speak Till You Are Spoken To. Myself, I Do Not Hold With That — I Say, You Should Ad-dress A Cat. But Always Keep In Mind That He Resents Familiarity. I Bow, And Taking Off My Hat, Ad-dress Him In This Form: O Cat! But If He Is The Cat Next Door, Whom I Have Often Met Before (he Comes To See Me In My Flat) I Greet Him With An Oopsa Cat! I Think I've Heard Them Call Him James — But We've Not Got So Far As Names.

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

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.

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.

In The End Is My Beginning.

Anxiety Is The Hand Maiden Of Creativity.

I Confess . . . That I Am Not Myself Very Much Concerned With The Question Of Influence, Or With Those Publicists Who Have Impressed Their Names Upon The Public By Catching The Morning Tide And Rowing Very Vast In The Direction In Which The Current Was Flowing; But Rather That There Should Always Be A Few Writers Preoccupied In Penetrating To The Core Of The Matter, In Trying To Arrive At The Truth And To Set It Forth, Without Too Much Hope, Without Ambition To Alter The Immediate Course Of Affairs, And Without Being Downcast Or Defeated When Nothing Appears To Ensue.

With Out Some Kind Of God, Man Is Not Very Intresting

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

We Took Up Our Positions, In Obedience To Instructions.

But At My Back From Time To Time I Hear The Sound Of Horns And Motors, Which Shall Bring Sweeney To Mrs. Porter In The Spring. O The Moon Shone Bright On Mrs. Porter And On Her Daughter They Wash Their Feet In Soda Water.

The Single Rose Is Now The Garden Where All Loves End

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.

Every Nation, Every Race, Has Not Only Its Own Creative, But Its Own Critical Turn Of Mind; And Is Even More Oblivious Of The Shortcomings And Limitations Of Its Critical Habits Than Of Those Of Its Creative Genius.

You Gave Me Hyacinths First A Year Ago; They Called Me The Hyacinth Girl.' —yet When We Came Back, Late, From The Hyacinth Garden, Your Arms Full, And Your Hair Wet, I Could Not Speak, And My Eyes Failed, I Was Neither Living Nor Dead, And I Knew Nothing, Looking Into The Heart Of Light, The Silence. Od' Und Leer Das Meer.

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.

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.

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