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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.
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
Ways
Weather
Justice
Winter
Year
Deep
Long
Journey
Years
Cold
Way
Coming
Time
Dead
Worst
Sharp
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Writing every day is a way of keeping the engine running, and then something good may come out of it.
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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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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.
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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.
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Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
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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.
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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.
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The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.
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The overwhelming pressure of mediocrity, sluggish and indomitable as a glacier, will mitigate the most violent, and depress the most exalted revolution.
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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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In the end is my beginning.
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We must learn to suffer more.
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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?
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This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
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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.
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I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is JennyanydotsHer coat is one of the tabby kind,with tiger stripes and lepard spots.
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Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.
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All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance.
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time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.
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The destination cannot be described / You will know very little until you get there / You will journey blind.
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