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No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be: am an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince.

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
Advise
Prince
Meant
Scene
Progress
Attendant
Start
Swell
Lord
Hamlet
Two
Futility

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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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We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in but its fitting in is a test of its value - a test, it is true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity.
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You must not on any account give me credit for being penetrating. I have impressed people that way before, and the result is always disaster.
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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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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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The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.
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Do I dare disturb the universe?
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Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
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The historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of literature from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order.
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I shall not want Honor in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney.
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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.
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To become what you are not, behave as you do not.
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The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
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The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.
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Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
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Human kind cannot bear much reality.
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Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past Into different lives, or into any future You are not the same people who left that station Or who will arrive at any terminus, While the narrowing rails slide together behind you.
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Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith The army of unalterable law.
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Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.
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For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
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