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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.

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
Action
Illusion
Ends
Result
Believe
Mere
Time
Toward
Eternal
Control
Results
Inexorably
Moving
Actions

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Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.
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The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
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It is impossible to say just what I mean!
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and now you live dispersed on ribbon roads, And no man knows or cares who is his neighbor Unless his neighbor makes too much disturbance, But all dash to and fro in motor cars, Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.
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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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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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Light Light The visible reminder of Invisible Light.
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We are not here to triumph by fighting, by strata gem, or by resistance, not to fight with beasts as men. We have fought the beast and have conquered. We have only to conquer now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.
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Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment.
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We learn what poetry is - if we ever learn - by reading it.
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Culture is the one thing that we cannot deliberately aim at. It is the product of a variety of more or less harmonious activities, each pursued for its own sake.
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Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
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Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
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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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Let's not be narrow, nasty, and negative.
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Where shall the word be found, where will the word / Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.
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Talent imitates, genius steals.
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Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-
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Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.
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Think neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
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