T. S. Eliot

  • Jan. 2nd, 2015 at 2:53 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.

T. S. Eliot

  • Oct. 18th, 2013 at 12:43 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
About anyone so great as Shakespeare, it is probable that we can never be right; and if we can never be right, it is better that we should from time to time change our way of being wrong.

T. S. Eliot

  • Sep. 12th, 2013 at 11:19 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: open book rose)
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

(Burnt Norton, The Four Quartets)

T. S. Eliot

  • Jan. 31st, 2012 at 10:34 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.

T. S. Eliot

  • Apr. 6th, 2011 at 12:35 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning...

(Little Gidding, Four Quartets)

T. S. Eliot

  • Mar. 6th, 2011 at 1:02 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
There are two reasons why the writer of poetry must not be thought to have any great advantage. One is that a discussion of poetry... takes us far outside the limits within which a poet may speak with authority; the other is that the poet does many things upon instinct, for which he can give no better account than anybody else. A poet can try, of course, to give an honest report of the way in which he himself writes: the result may, if he is a good observer, be illuminating. And in one sense, but a very limited one, he knows better what his poems 'mean' than can anyone else; he may know the history of their composition, the material which has gone in and come out in an unrecognizable form, and he knows what he was trying to do and what he was meaning to mean. But what a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely a reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning - or without forgetting, merely changing.

(Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot)

T. S. Eliot

  • Feb. 2nd, 2011 at 7:25 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.

(From Burnt Norton, Four Quartets)

T. S. Eliot

  • Nov. 19th, 2010 at 2:59 AM
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
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, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.
(From Burnt Norton, Four Quartets)

Source

T. S. Eliot

  • Oct. 3rd, 2010 at 11:22 PM
beth_shulman: (great gatsby art)
Mediocre writers borrow, great writers steal.

T. S. Eliot

  • Aug. 24th, 2010 at 9:08 PM
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
...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 a toast and tea.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” ...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
..

(The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

Source
Italics are mine
beth_shulman: (stock: violin)
Poetry is usually considered the most local of all the arts. Painting, sculpture, architecture, music, can be enjoyed by all who see or hear. But language, especially the language of poetry, is a different matter. Poetry, it might seem, separates peoples instead of uniting them.

But on the other hand we must remember, that while language constitutes a barrier, poetry itself gives us a reason for trying to overcome the barrier. To enjoy poetry belonging to another language, is to enjoy an understanding of the people to whom that language belongs, an understanding we can get in no other way. We may think also of the history of poetry in Europe, and of the great influence that the poetry of one language can exert on another; we must remember the immense debt of every considerable poet to poets of other languages than his own; we may reflect that the poetry of every country and every language would decline and perish, were it not nourished by poetry in foreign tongues. When a poet speaks to his own people, the voices of all the poets of other languages who have influenced him are speaking also. And at the same time he himself is speaking to younger poets of other languages, and these poets will convey something of his vision of life and something of the spirit of his people, to their own. Partly through his influence on other poets, partly through translation, which must be also a kind of recreation of his poems by other poets, partly through readers of his language who are not themselves poets, the poet can contribute toward understanding between peoples.

Source

T. S. Eliot

  • May. 30th, 2010 at 9:23 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."

T. S. Eliot

  • May. 25th, 2010 at 11:55 PM
beth_shulman: (Default)
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood."

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