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

In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.

It will do you no harm to find yourself ridiculous. Resign yourself to be the fool you are... We must always take risks. That is our destiny...

Men tighten the knot of confusion into perfect misunderstanding.

No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers.

Old men ought to be explorers Here and there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation . . . In my end is my beginning.

People exercise an unconscious selection in being influenced.

Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence...

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair- Lean on a garden urn- Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

The communication/of the dead is tongued with fire beyond/the language of the living

The lot of man is ceaseless labor, or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder.

The soul is so far from being a monad that we have not only to interpret other souls to ourself but to interpret ourself to ourself.

There is no method but to be very intelligent.

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.

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.

We are being made aware that the organization of society on the principle of private profit, as well as public destruction, is leading both to the deformation of humanity by unregulated industrialism, and to the exhaustion of natural resources, and that a good deal of our material progress is a progress for which succeeding generations may have to pay dearly.

We returned to our palaces, these Kingdoms, but no longer at ease here in the old dispensation, with an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

When the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table; let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, the muttering retreats of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: streets that follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent to lead you to an overwhelming question… Oh, do not ask, What is it? Let us go and make our visit.

Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall my buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world to be wonderful and youthful after all

In the vain laughter of folly, wisdom hears half its applause.

It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them.

Most contemporary novels are not really written. They obtain what reality they have largely from an accurate rendering of the noises that human beings currently make in their daily simple needs of communication; and what part of a novel is not composed of these noises consists of a prose which is no more alive than that of a competent newspaper writer or government official. A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel-reader is not prepared to give.

No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.

One of the surest tests of the superiority or inferiority of a poet is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate mature poets steal bad poets deface what they take and good poets make it into something better or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique utterly different than that from which it is torn the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time or alien in language or diverse in interest.

People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

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