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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.

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
Even
Habit
Every
Genius
Oblivious
Mind
Nation
Shortcomings
Turn
Limitations
Creative
Habits
Race
Limitation
Nations
Critical
Turns
Criticism

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And they write innumerable books being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.
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The chief danger about Paris is that it is such a strong stimulant.
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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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Philosophy: a purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.
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Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.
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A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.
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The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates.
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A toothache, or a violent passion, is not necessarily diminished by our knowledge of its causes, its character, its importance or insignificance.
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Words strain, crack, and sometime break, under the burden.
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At the beach - time you enjoyed wasting, is not wasted.
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You have to risk going too far to discover just how far you can really go.
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The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an objective correlative in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula for that particular emotion such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.
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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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Human kind cannot bear much reality.
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What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.
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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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Those who say they give the public what it wants begin by underestimating public taste and end by debauching it.
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In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away
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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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But the Church cannot be, in any political sense, either conservative or liberal, or revolutionary. Conservatism is too often conservation of the wrong things: liberalism a relaxation of discipline revolution a denial of the permanent things.
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