T S Eliot Quotes

“May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland
with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams
and make one season of poetry farming
by tilling with the pen of desire.”
― Suman Pokhrel

“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us.”
― Thomas Stearns Eliot

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.

That is why we invent stories, I said.

And what if we are the story we invent? said Shelley.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Frankissstein: A Love Story

“Let us roam then, you and I,
When the evening is splayed out across the sky
[...]
Paths that follow like a nagging accusation
Of a minor violation
To lead you to the ultimate reproof ...
Oh, do not say, 'Bad kitty!'
Let us go and prowl the city.

In the rooms the cats run to and fro
Auditioning for a Broadway show."

(From The Love Song of J. Morris Housecat)”
― Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

“All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
But nearness to death no nearer to God.
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, The Waste Land and Other Poems

“And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I shed?' and, 'Do I shed?'
Time to turn back and stretch out on the bed,
And give myself a bath before I'm fed --
(They will say: 'It's the short-haired ones I prefer.')
My flea collar buckled neatly in my fur,
My expression cool and distant but softened by a gentle purr --
(They will say: 'I'm allergic to his fur!')
Do I dare
Jump up on the table?
In an instant there is time
For excursions and inversions that will make me seem unstable."

(From The Love Song of J. Morris Housecat)”
― Henry N. Beard, Poetry for Cats: The Definitive Anthology of Distinguished Feline Verse

“Our story began with uncertainty, and with uncertainty, it ended—not with a bang, but a whisper.”
― Aura Biru, We Are Everyone

“I don't know much about gods, but I think the river is a strong, brown god”
― T.S. Eliot

“You are not here to verify,
instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
or carry report. You are here to kneel
where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more than an order of words, the conscious occupation of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.”
― T. S. Eliot

“The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.”
― T.S Eliot

“Dust in the air suspended,
Marks the place where a story ended.”
― T.S. Eliot

“My Stephen King for his Ayn Rand. My Terry Goodkind for his T.S. Elliot. Not a bang but a whimper.”
― Shannon Celebi, After Spring Comes

“Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice”
― T. S. Eliot, Poems

“Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

(It's not the main point of the poem, but I am the third generation of my family who's never been able to eat a peach without wondering, do I dare and do I dare)”
― T.S. Eliot, Let Us Go Then, You and I

“If you imagine yourselves suddenly deprived of your personal present, of all possibility of action, reduced in consciousness to the memories of everything up to the present, these memories, this existence which would be merely the totality of memories, would be meaningless and flat, even if it could continue to exist. If suddenly all power of producing more poetry were withdrawn from the race, if we knew that for poetry we should have to turn always to what already existed, I think that past poetry would become meaningless. For the capacity of appreciating poetry is inseparable from the power of producing it, it is poets themselves who can best appreciate poetry. Life is always turned toward creation; the present only, keeps the past alive.”
― T.S. Eliot

“. . .poetry by Eliot. There's a lulling thing in his voice that makes me feel as if a spell has been cast that shall wake us all so that we might fly out of the mirror and speak to each other clearly at last.”
― Louisa Hall, Speak

“You plot, daily. Face down circumstance. Measure out your life with...not coffee spoons--pills. Line them up with breakfast, lunch, supper. Never mind mermaids, and lilacs in bloom, and all that stuff. He hadn't a clue.”
― Penelope Lively, The Purple Swamp Hen and Other Stories

“She was the still point of the turning world.”
― Jeffrey Eugenides/T.S. Eliot

“T. S. Eliot wrote, ‘Teach us to care and not to care / Teach us to sit still.’ We long for this, and yet we check our smartphones every ten minutes for news, texts, distraction.”
― Anne Lamott, Almost Everything: Notes on Hope

“The public will stand, nay even enjoy, a good deal of poetry.”
― W.H. Auden

“She reads aloud from Eliot—“‘I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing’”—and then she closes the book and sets it aside.”
― Dean Koontz, The House at the End of the World

“Какво правиш, пита. Лека
английска утрин, казвам. Чета
Елиът, слушам Beatles. О,
казва тя, как ги смесваш?
Като сметаната с чая, казвам.
Като чай със сметана,
поправя ме тя, все пак Елиът
толкова много държеше
да бъде горчив и английски.
И си мреше по порцелана,
по вечерните вестници,
по звъна на лъжичките. Той
беше чаят, той беше чаят... Ония
бръмбари просто обраха каймака.”
― Георги Господинов

“That poem you like, how does it end?”
He knows how it ends. He’s looked it up by now, that’s why he asks.
But I answer him anyway.
“‘We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls wreathed
with seaweed red and brown, till human voices wake us, and we drown.’”
Eliot shakes his head. “It does not need the last three words. The last
three words are wrong.”
I laugh at his correcting a Nobel prize-winning poet, but I agree. I
know what drowning feels like. It doesn’t need water. And human voices,
if they say the right things, can save you.
“Eliot, do you have a pen I can borrow?”
I can feel him smiling in the dark, and we watch the sea caress the
sand.
“That man in the poem, Mr. Prufrock, he was a coward, wasn’t he?”
Eliot says.
My answer to his question is the same as his answer to mine.”
― Ray Cluley, Probably Monsters

“I felt more like Sylvia Plath or T.S. Eliot, an expat whose real mission was to escape.”
― Erica Garza, Getting Off: One Woman's Journey Through Sex and Porn Addiction

“τοῦ λόγου δὲ ἐόντος ξυνοῦ ζώουσιν οἱ πολλοί
ὡς ἰδίαν ἔχοντες φρόνησιν”
― Ἡράκλειτος

“We must make our peace with mystery or else we might go mad. For me, faith is complicated, challenging and sometimes confounding. It is not magical but mysterious. Magic means there is a spell, a formula, to work wonders. Mystery means there is no spell, no formula—only shadow and impenetrability and hope that, in a phrase T.S. Eliot borrowed from Julian of Norwich, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
― Jon Meacham, The Hope of Glory: Reflections on the Last Words of Jesus from the Cross

“Vivien(ne) is depicted so often as the femme fatale, the black widow, the vampire.

Yet Tom seems bolder, more vital, more alive as she declines, Jaunty in top hat and cane outside Faber & Gwyer.”
― Kate Zambreno, Heroines

“Thomas Stearns Eliot wrote poetry under dim light, which could only have polished his lines with the sternness of impoverished, yet promising vigour. But through it, his language thundered, roared and spoke with the greed of eclectic poetry. To deny he’s my all-time favourite poet is to paint lies with the scarlet colours of a harlot’s lipsticks.”
― Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

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― T.S. Eliot

“Interviewing T.S. Eliot, I saved my cheekiest question for last. “Do you know you’re any good?” His revised and printed response was formal, but in person he was abrupt: “Heavens no! Do you? Nobody intelligent knows if he’s any good.”
― Donald Hall, Essays After Eighty