Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Source: East Coker
Contributed by: Zaady
That was my way of putting it-not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.
Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.
Source: Little Gidding
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
Source: Gerontion, 1920
The end is where we start from.
We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.
Success is relative. It is what we can make of the mess we have made of things.
The one thing you can do is to do nothing. Wait . . . You will find that you survive humiliation and that's an experience of incalculable value.
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
Source: The Boston Evening Transcript, 1917
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