“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.”

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

Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice.

Distracted from distraction by distraction

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

We must not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.

For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

This is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.

Teach us to care and not to care

If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

I can connect Nothing with nothing

For you know only a heap of broken images

I’d love to knock an audience cold with one note, but what do you do for the rest of the evening?

It’s so important to have that independence. You know it yourself: Everyone needs evenings of their own.

The face of the night will be an old wound that reopens each evening, impassive and living. The distant silence will ache like a soul, mute, in the dark. We’ll speak to the night as it’s whispering softly.

One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day was; one cannot judge life until death.

Getting up at 4 in the morning, I slave away all day until by the evening I’m exhausted, and I end by forgetting all my responsibilities, thinking only of the work I’ve set out to do.

I spent the whole evening sitting before a mirror to keep myself company.

On a bare branch a crow is perched – autumn evening.

At the evening of life, we shall be judged on our love.