I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
T. S. ELIOTThere will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
More T. S. Eliot Quotes
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I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.
T. S. ELIOT -
Television is a medium of entertainment which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet remain lonesome.
T. S. ELIOT -
Unreal friendship may turn to real But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended
T. S. ELIOT -
To do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, to contemplate the beautiful thing: that is enough for one man’s life.
T. S. ELIOT -
People to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
T. S. ELIOT -
Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.
T. S. ELIOT -
What is hell? Hell is oneself. Hell is alone, the other figures in it Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
T. S. ELIOT -
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
T. S. ELIOT -
Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past.
T. S. ELIOT -
This is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper.
T. S. ELIOT -
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.
T. S. ELIOT -
Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
T. S. ELIOT -
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.
T. S. ELIOT -
Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.
T. S. ELIOT -
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
T. S. ELIOT