T. S. Eliot, fully Thomas Sterns Eliot

T. S.
Eliot, fully Thomas Sterns Eliot
1888
1965

American-born English Poet, Playwright, and Literary Critic

Author Quotes

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes licked its tongue into the corners of the evening lingered upon the pools that stand in drains let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap and seeing that it was a soft October night curled once about the house, and fell asleep

They had an extensive reputation.

Time past and time future, what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.

Unreal City, under the brown fog of a winter dawn, a crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, and each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, to where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours with a dead sound on the final stock of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him crying: 'Stetson! You, who were with me in the ships at Mylae! That corpse you planted last year in your garden, has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, or with his nails he'll dig it up again! You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frere!

We must always take risks. That is our destiny...

What we call the beginning is often an end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling we shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive at what we started and know the place for the first time.

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

Life is long between the desire and the spasm.

My mind may be American but my heart is British.

O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.

Our high respect for a well-read person is praise enough for literature.

Politic, cautious, and meticulous; full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse.

So, while we believe that the same religion may inform a variety of cultures, we may ask whether any culture could come into being, or maintain itself, without a religious basis. We may go further and ask whether what we call the culture, and what we call the religion, of a people are not different aspects of the same thing: the culture being, essentially, the incarnation (so to speak) of the religion of a people.

The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him personal. Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.

The fool, fixed in his folly, may think he can turn the wheel on which he turns.

The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

There are three conditions which often look alike, yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow: attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment from self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference.

They speak better than they know, and beyond your understanding.

Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time.

Unreal friendship may turn to real but real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended

We must believe that emotion recollected in tranquility is an inexact formula. For it is neither emotion, nor recollection, nor without distortion of meaning, tranquility. It is a concentration, and a new thing resulting from the concentration of a very great number of experiences which to the practical and active person would not seem to be experiences at all; it is a concentration which does not happen consciously or of deliberation. These experiences are not recollected and they finally unite in an atmosphere which is tranquil only in that it is a passive attending upon the event.

Whatever you do ... do not complain, but take the consequences.

With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner.

It is in fact a part of the function of education to help us to escape, not from our own time - for we are bound by that - but from the intellectual and emotional limitations of our time.

Author Picture
First Name
T. S.
Last Name
Eliot, fully Thomas Sterns Eliot
Birth Date
1888
Death Date
1965
Bio

American-born English Poet, Playwright, and Literary Critic