All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.
Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.
The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all.
The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways.
When a poet's mind is perfectly equipped for its work, it is constantly amalgamating disparate experience ?in the mind of the poet these experiences are always forming new wholes.
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.
I believe the moment of birth Is when we have knowledge of death I believe the season of birth Is the season of sacrifice.
The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.
So the lover must struggle for words.
Sensibility alters from generation to generation in everybody, whether we will or no; but expression is only altered by a man of genius.
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman -But who is that on the other side of you?
i will show you fear in a handful of dust." t.s. eliot we don't actually fear death, we fear that no one will notice our absence, that we will disappear without a trace.
It has frequently been said that we never desire what we think absolutely inapprehensible: it is however true that some of our sharpest agonies are those in which the object of desire is regarded as both possible and imaginary.
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has no face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poem he makes, are a kind of exorcism of this demon.
When we read of human beings behaving in certain ways, with the approval of the author, who gives his benediction to this behavior by his attitude towards the result of the behavior arranged by himself, we can be influenced towards behaving in the same way.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
That meddling in other people's affairs...formerly conducted by the most discreet intrigue is now openly advocated under the name of intervention.
In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light. We are glad when the day ends, when the play ends; and ecstasy is too much pain.
To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.
The work of creation is never without travail.
Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same.
I've been born, and once is enough.
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant
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.
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