T. S. Eliot Quotes

For me, it was a formative experience reading Eliot when I was younger. 'The Waste Land,' in particular.

It was early evening when they walked outside, the sky the color of pink lemonade.

Twilight fell: The sky turned to a light, dusky purple littered with tiny silver stars.

The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

The sky slowly pulled up its blue dress to reveal night.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

The dusk was performing its customary intransitive operation of "gathering".

I hate to see the evening sun go down.

A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its going. And dusk crept over the sky from the eastern horizon, and darkness crept over the land from the east.

Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.

The winding down of summer puts me in a heavy philosophical mood.

I've always been interested in arrival, and coming to a space, and even to looking back at where you were.

I used to lock myself in my room and memorize scenes from films and reenact them when I was alone.

As far as I can see, the best writers in the last two hundred years have been Whitman, Rilke, Proust, Kafka. Their best works: 'Leaves of Grass - 1855;' 'Duino Elegies;' 'The Captive & The Fugitive;' 'The Castle.'

I love Charles Baudelaire. Him and Shakespeare are the only people I think are better than me.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

The poem is itself a mirror.

Just as the setting sun turned the clouds to liquid gold.

The past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as I moved Southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as I dared, but always heeding the call!

What do you do there, moon, in the sky? Tell me what you do, silent moon. When evening comes you rise and go contemplating wastelands; then you set.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

the redness had seeped from the day and night was arranging herself around us. Cooling things down, staining and dyeing the evening purple and blue black.

Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.