There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
T. S. EliotRead
Desire itself is movement_x000D_ _x000D_ Not in itself desirable;_x000D_ _x000D_ Love is itself unmoving,_x000D_ _x000D_ Only the cause and end of movement,_x000D_ _x000D_ Timeless, and undesiring_x000D_ _x000D_ Except in the aspect of time_x000D_ _x000D_ Caught in the form of limitation_x000D_ _x000D_ Between un-being and being.
Interpretation
This quote explores the nature of desire and love, suggesting that while desire is a dynamic force, love is inherently stable and timeless.
T. S. Eliot's quote delves into the philosophical understanding of desire and love, positing that desire itself propels movement and change but lacks intrinsic value. In contrast, love is portrayed as a constant, unaffected by the transience of time, existing in a state that transcends mere wanting, and it is caught in the paradox of moving between being and un-being.
In practice
In a discussion about the complexities of human emotions at a philosophical seminar.
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
Others indeed may talk, and write, and fight about liberty, and make an outward pretence to it but the free-thinker alone is truly free.
It seems not more reasonable to leave the right of printing unrestrained, because writers may be afterwards censured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted, because by our laws we can hang a thief.
I realized it for the first time in my life: there is nothing but mystery in the world, how it hides behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days, shining brightly, and we don't even know it.
If our condition were truly happy, we would not seek diversion from it in order to make ourselves happy.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.
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