There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote suggests that novice poets copy others, while experienced poets take inspiration from them and create something original.
In this quote, T. S. Eliot emphasizes the distinction between immature and mature artistry. While amateur poets may simply mimic the work of their predecessors without adding their own perspective, mature poets embrace the influence of those who came before them and transform those ideas into fresh and authentic expressions. This reflects a deeper understanding of creativity as a process that builds upon existing art, rather than just reproduces it.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
In a writing workshop, a leader might quote this to encourage poets to develop their unique voice.
More from T. S. Eliot
All quotes →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 all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Similar quotes
Every photo, every 'ONCE' in time is also the beginning of a story starting 'once upon a time...' Every photo is the first frame of a movie.
It is in order to really see, to see ever deeper, ever more intensely, hence to be fully aware and alive, that I draw what the Chinese call 'The Ten Thousand Things' around me. Drawing is the discipline by which I constantly rediscover the world. I have learned that what I have not drawn, I have never really seen, and that when I start drawing an ordinary thing, I realize how extraordinary it is, sheer miracle.
Once, when we were playing at the Apollo Theater, Holiday was working a block away at the Harlem Opera House. Some of us went over between shows to catch her, and afterwards we went backstage. I did something then, and I still don't know if it was the right thing to do—I asked her for her autograph.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
What do I care if you are good? Be beautiful! and be sad!
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—