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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.
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
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Poet
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Social Critic
St. Louis
Missouri
Thomas Stearns Eliot
Eliot
T S Eliot
Thomas Eliot
T.S. Eliot
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Cows
More quotes by T. S. Eliot
It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.
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The majority of poems one outgrows and outlives, as one outgrows and outlives the majority of human passions.
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In my beginning is my end.
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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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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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All cases are unique and very similar to others.
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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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It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.
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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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Where there is no temple there shall be no homes.
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This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
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Sensibility alters from generation to generation in everybody, whether we will or no but expression is only altered by a man of genius.
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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.
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We learn what poetry is - if we ever learn - by reading it.
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Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.
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The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
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The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end
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No artist produces great art by a deliberate attempt to express his own personality.
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We see the light but see not whence it comes. O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!
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In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.
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