T.S. Eliot

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance

We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.

You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.

If you haven__ the strength to impose your own terms upon life, then you must accept the terms it offers you.

Not the intense momentIsolated, with no before and after,But a lifetime burning in every moment.

There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create,And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.

I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

In my end is my beginning.

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

Destiny waits in the hand of god, shaping the still unshapen..

There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.

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.

Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intentTo lead you to an overwhelming question...

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

There is nothing at all to be done about it, There is nothing to do about anything.