Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis.
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Source: Rhapsody on a Windy Night. 1917
Contributed by: Zaady
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
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
Source: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, 1917
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
Source: The Waste Land, 1922, What the Thunder Said
This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
Source: The Hollow Men, 1925
The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason.
Source: Murder in the Cathedral
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