There is no bad day that can’t be overcome by listening to a barbershop quartet. This is just truth, plain and simple.
Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.
time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not / You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being.
The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre - To be redeemed from fire by fire.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not all it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is incarnation. Here the impossible union of spheres of existence is actual. Here the past and future are conquered and reconciled.
The past and future / Are conquered, and reconciled.
Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness.
Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to arrive at what you do not know You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance. In order to possess what you do not possess You must go by the way of dispossession. In order to arrive at what you are not You must go through the way in which you are not. And what you do not know is the only thing you know And what you own is what you do not own And where you are is where you are not.
A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments.
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
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.
One is that you have to take time, lots of time, to let an idea grow from within. The second is that when you sign on to something, there will be issues of trust, deep trust, the way the members of a string quartet have to trust one another.
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
There was one thing Beethoven didn't do. When one of his string quartets was played, you can believe the second violin wasn't improvising.
You are the music while the music lasts.
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