You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light,… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. — T. S. Eliot, from “Tradition and Individual Talent,” The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (Routledge, 1989)
The river is within us, the sea is all about us — T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages,” The Four Quartets. (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971) Originally published 1943.
Desire itself is movement Not in itself desireable; 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. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. ― T.S. Eliot
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal. ― T.S. Eliot, The Sacred Wood. (Faber & Faber, April 1, 1997) Originally published November 4th 1920.
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world… Continue reading T.S. Eliot