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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.
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
Way
Hunts
Feed
Passed
Mysterious
Works
Sleep
Church
Night
Hippopotamus
More quotes by T. S. Eliot
Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
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The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.
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Finding a way to live the simple life is one of life's supreme complications.
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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.
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Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place.
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And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
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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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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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I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
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The river itself has no beginning or end. In its beginning, it is not yet the river in the end it is no longer the river. What we call the headwaters is only a selection from among the innumerable sources which flow together to compose it. At what point in its course does the Mississippi become what the Mississippi means?
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This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
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The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.
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Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
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The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.
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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?
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Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.
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In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by the way of dispossession.
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He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it
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We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open
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The Civil War is not ended: I question whether any serious civil war ever does end.
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