There is no bad day that can’t be overcome by listening to a barbershop quartet. This is just truth, plain and simple.
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.
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.
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not / You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.
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.
And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.
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.
Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.
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.
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.
Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.
The past and future / Are conquered, and reconciled.
Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
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.
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.
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.
How could a New Yorker possibly take something called the Hollywood String Quartet seriously?
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.
You are the music while the music lasts.
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
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