Only through time time is conquered
A tradition without intelligence is not worth having.
The sense of wellbeing! Its often with us When we are young, but then it's not noticed; And by the time one has grown to consciousness It comes less often.
I suspect that in our loathing of totalitarianism, there is infused a good deal of admiration for its efficiency.
He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it
Men have left GOD not for other gods, they say, but for no God; and this has never happened before.
Think not forever of yourselves, O Chiefs, nor of your own generation. Think of continuing generations of our families, think of our grandchildren and of those yet unborn, whose faces are coming from beneath the ground.
There is no method but to be very intelligent.
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.
Sand. Everywhere. In the bed, in the shower, all over the floor. Grrrrr.
The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.
A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything)
Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.
A good half of the effort of understanding what the Indian philosophers were after - and their subtleties make most of the great European philosophers look like schoolboys.
And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street rubbing its back upon the window-panes; there will be time , there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; there will be time to murder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate; 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 toast and tea.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word / Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.
In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away
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.
The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways.
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
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.
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.
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