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.
T. S. ELIOTPeople to whom nothing has ever happened cannot understand the unimportance of events.
More T. S. Eliot Quotes
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Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
T. S. ELIOT -
There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.
T. S. ELIOT -
I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
T. S. ELIOT -
Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
T. S. ELIOT -
I can connect Nothing with nothing
T. S. ELIOT -
Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
T. S. ELIOT -
Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.
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 -
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 -
There’s no vocabulary For love within a family, love that’s lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.
T. S. ELIOT -
If you haven’t the strength to impose your own terms upon life, then you must accept the terms it offers you.
T. S. ELIOT -
If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
T. S. ELIOT -
Unreal friendship may turn to real But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended
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 -
This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.
T. S. ELIOT