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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.
T. S. Eliot
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T. S. Eliot
Age: 76 †
Born: 1888
Born: September 26
Died: 1965
Died: January 4
Critic
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Lyricist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Social Critic
St. Louis
Missouri
Thomas Stearns Eliot
Eliot
T S Eliot
Thomas Eliot
T.S. Eliot
Fancy
Gentle
Notion
Moved
Fancies
Suffering
Curled
Around
Cling
Thing
Infinitely
Images
More quotes by T. S. Eliot
The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
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Accident is design / And design is accident / In a cloud of unknowing.
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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.
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To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.
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If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
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The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.
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Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn
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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.
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No artist produces great art by a deliberate attempt to express his own personality.
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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.
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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.
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It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.
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People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
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Gin and drugs, dear lady, gin and drugs.
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Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?
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Where is the Life we lost in living?
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Liberty is a different kind of pain from prison.
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Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.
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In the last few years everything I'd done up to sixty or so has seemed very childish.
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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.
T. S. Eliot
