T. S. Eliot

Can we only love_x000D_ _x000D_ Something created in our own imaginations?_x000D_ _x000D_ Are we all in fact unloving and unloveable?_x000D_ _x000D_ Then one is alone, and if one is alone_x000D_ _x000D_ Then lover and beloved are equally unreal_x000D_ _x000D_ And the dreamer is no more real than his dreams.

The single Rose_x000D_ _x000D_ Is now the Garden_x000D_ _x000D_ Where all loves end

Here between the hither and the farther shore_x000D_ _x000D_ While time is withdrawn, consider the future_x000D_ _x000D_ And the past with an equal mind.

So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still

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

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.

This is one moment, / But know that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy.

He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.

To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.

And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Distracted from distraction by distraction

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

My mind may be American but my heart is British.

and now you live dispersed on ribbon roads, And no man knows or cares who is his neighbor Unless his neighbor makes too much disturbance, But all dash to and fro in motor cars, Familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.

My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.

life is long between the desire and the spasm.

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit.

Think neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

For you know only a heap of broken images

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?