There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
T. S. EliotRead
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
Interpretation
Eliot describes April as a harsh month that brings new life, awakening painful memories and desires.
In this quote, T. S. Eliot reflects on the complexity of spring as a time of renewal and awakening, juxtaposing the beauty of blooming flowers with the harshness of confronting past memories and desires. April signifies a transition, where the once dormant landscape comes alive, but this revival also stirs painful emotions and memories that might be uncomfortable for individuals to face, thus branding it cruel.
In practice
In a literary analysis of Eliot's work, I might quote, 'April is the cruelest month' to discuss themes of rebirth.
There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
Half of the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don't mean to do harm. But the harm does not interest them.
I am an Anglo-Catholic in religion, a classicist in literature and a royalist in politics.
If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
For I have known them all already, known them allβ Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.
Sitting over words _x000D_ Very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing _x000D_ Not far _x000D_ Like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark _x000D_ The echo of everything that has ever _x000D_ Been spoken _x000D_ Still spinning its one syllable _x000D_ Between the earth and silence.
Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
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