Eliot Wasteland Quotes

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Do I dare Disturb the universe?
T.S. Eliot (The Wasteland, Prufrock and Other Poems)
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.
T.S. Eliot (The Wasteland, Prufrock and Other Poems)
There is shadow under this red rock // (Come in under the shadow of this red rock) // And I will show you something different from either // Your shadow at morning striding behind you // Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you // I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
T.S. Eliot (The Waste Land)
T. S. Eliot taught us you can write about your nervous breakdown, but call it 'The Wasteland' and make it big and crazy enough to hide behind.
Mary Jo Bang
My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms
T.S. Eliot (The Wasteland, Prufrock and Other Poems)
May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams and make one season of poetry farming by tilling with the pen of desire.
Suman Pokhrel
For I have known them all already, known them all - Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all - The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
T.S. Eliot (T.S. Eliot Reads: The Wasteland, Four Quartets and Other Poems)
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where St Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stock of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him crying: 'Stetson! You, who were with me in the ships at Mylae! That corpse you planted last year in your garden, Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frere!
T.S. Eliot (Selected Poems)
Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
T.S. Eliot
Even the wisest of mankind cannot live by reason alone; pure arrogant reason, denying the claims of prejudice (which commonly are also the claims of conscience), leads to a wasteland of withered hopes and crying loneliness, empty of God and man: the wilderness in which Satan tempted Christ was not more dreadful than the arid expanse of intellectual vanity deprived of tradition and intuition, where modern man is tempted by his own pride.
Russell Kirk (The Conservative Mind: From Burke to Eliot)
The corpses in the wasteland of past and present haunt us. We are still in Eliot's land of the dead, imprisoned in Kafka's penal colony, running from the unexplained rage of the golem, listening to Lovecraft's drumbeat of horror, and shivering in the chilly shadow of Grau and Murnau's Nosferatu. We cannot awaken from history.
W. Scott Poole
The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling. And when all the world came back And the light crept up between the shutters, And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, You had such a vision of the street.
T.S. Eliot (The Wasteland, Prufrock and Other Poems)
দি জানিতাম, যারে আমি দিতেছি উত্তর পুনরপি সে ফিরিবে এ–মরজগতে তবে ফের এই শিখা জ্বলিত না মোর অপিচ কদাপি কেহ এ-পাতাল হ’তে জীবন্ত ফেরেনি; শুনি যাহা তাহা সত্য হ’লে তব কাছে করিব বর্ণন নিন্দাভীতি বিনা। তুমি আর আমি মিলে চলো তবে যাই, যখন ছড়ানো সন্ধ্যা আকাশের গায় ইথার-অবশ এক রোগী যেন টেবিলে-শোয়ানো; চলো যাই, আধ-ফাঁকা পথগুলো দ’লে এক-রজনীর-শস্তা-হোটেলে হোটেলে অস্থির রাতের যতো ক্ষীয়মান প্রলাপ এড়িয়ে আর ওই ঝিনুক-শোভিত আর কাঠের কুচিতে ছাওয়া রেস্তোরাঁর ভিড়ে সেইসব পথের চলন ফন্দি-আঁটা একঘেঁয়ে তর্ক যেমন এরা সবে নিয়ে চলে তোমায় বিহ্বলকর জিজ্ঞাসার দিকে… জানতে চেয়ো না তুমি, অহো, ‘এটা কি’? যাই আর চলো গিয়ে দেখি। ঘরটিতে মহিলারা আসে আর যায় মিকেলেঞ্জেলোর কথা জিভের ডগায়।
T.S. Eliot
Tu nie ma wody tu jest tylko skała Skała bez wody i piaszczysta droga Droga wijąca się wśród gór nad nami Między skałami głazami bez wody Gdyby tu była woda stanąłbym i pił Lecz pośród skał nie można myśleć ani stać Suchy jest pot a stopy grzęzną w piachu Gdyby tu woda spływała ze skał Martwa jest paszcza gór spróchniałe zęby pluć nie mogą Tutaj nie można usiąść leżeć ani stać I ciszy nawet nie ma w górach Tylko bezpłodny suchy grzmot bez deszczu I samotności nawet nie ma w górach Tylko posępne czerwone twarze - drwią i szydzą W drzwiach lepianek z popękanej gliny Gdyby tu była woda A nie skała Gdyby tu była skała Ale i woda I woda Źródło Sadzawka wśród skał Gdyby tu był chociażby wody dźwięk A nie cykada I śpiew suchych traw Ale na skale wody dźwięk Gdzie drozd-pustelnik śpiewa pośród sosen Krop kap krop kap kap kap kap Ale tu nie ma wody Kim jest ten trzeci, który zawsze idzie obok ciebie? Gdy liczę nas, jesteśmy tylko ty i ja Lecz gdy spoglądam przed siebie w biel drogi Zawsze ktoś jeszcze idzie obok ciebie, Stąpa spowity płaszczem brunatnym, w kapturze Nie wiem czy jest to kobieta czy mąż - Kim jest ten, który idzie po twej drugiej stronie? Co to za dźwięki wysoko w powietrzu Pomruk matczynych lamentów Co to za hordy w kapturach, jak roje Na bezkresnych równinach, utykają na spękanej ziemi Otoczonej jedynie płaskim horyzontem Co to za miasto nad łańcuchem gór Pęka i zrasta się i rozpryskuje - w fioletowym wietrze Walące się wieże Jeruzalem Ateny Aleksandria Wiedeń Londyn Nierzeczywiste
T.S. Eliot (The Wasteland, Prufrock and Other Poems)
It is already the fashion to diminish Eliot by calling him derivative, the mouthpiece of Pound, and so forth; and yet if one wanted to understand the apocalypse of early modernism in its true complexity it would be Eliot, I fancy, who would demand one's closest attention. He was ready to rewrite the history of all that interested him in order to have past and present conform; he was a poet of apocalypse, of the last days and the renovation, the destruction of the earthly city as a chastisement of human presumption, but also of empire. Tradition, a word we especially associate with this modernist, is for him the continuity of imperial deposits; hence the importance in his thought of Virgil and Dante. He saw his age as a long transition through which the elect must live, redeeming the time. He had his demonic host, too; the word 'Jew' remained in lower case through all the editions of the poems until the last of his lifetime, the seventy-fifth birthday edition of 1963. He had a persistent nostalgia for closed, immobile hierarchical societies. If tradition is, as he said in After Strange Gods--though the work was suppressed--'the habitual actions, habits and customs' which represent the kinship 'of the same people living in the same place' it is clear that Jews do not have it, but also that practically nobody now does. It is a fiction, a fiction cousin to a myth which had its effect in more practical politics. In extenuation it might be said that these writers felt, as Sartre felt later, that in a choice between Terror and Slavery one chooses Terror, 'not for its own sake, but because, in this era of flux, it upholds the exigencies proper to the aesthetics of Art.' The fictions of modernist literature were revolutionary, new, though affirming a relation of complementarity with the past. These fictions were, I think it is clear, related to others, which helped to shape the disastrous history of our time. Fictions, notably the fiction of apocalypse, turn easily into myths; people will live by that which was designed only to know by. Lawrence would be the writer to discuss here, if there were time; apocalypse works in Woman in Love, and perhaps even in Lady Chatterley's Lover, but not n Apocalypse, which is failed myth. It is hard to restore the fictive status of what has become mythical; that, I take it, is what Mr. Saul Bellow is talking about in his assaults on wastelandism, the cant of alienation. In speaking of the great men of early modernism we have to make very subtle distinctions between the work itself, in which the fictions are properly employed, and obiter dicta in which they are not, being either myths or dangerous pragmatic assertions. When the fictions are thus transformed there is not only danger but a leak, as it were, of reality; and what we feel about. all these men at times is perhaps that they retreated inso some paradigm, into a timeless and unreal vacuum from which all reality had been pumped. Joyce, who was a realist, was admired by Eliot because he modernized myth, and attacked by Lewis because he concerned himself with mess, the disorders of common perception. But Ulysses ,alone of these great works studies and develops the tension between paradigm and reality, asserts the resistance of fact to fiction, human freedom and unpredictability against plot. Joyce chooses a Day; it is a crisis ironically treated. The day is full of randomness. There are coincidences, meetings that have point, and coincidences which do not. We might ask whether one of the merits of the book is not its lack of mythologizing; compare Joyce on coincidence with the Jungians and their solemn concordmyth, the Principle of Synchronicity. From Joyce you cannot even extract a myth of Negative Concord; he shows us fiction fitting where it touches. And Joyce, who probably knew more about it than any of the others, was not at tracted by the intellectual opportunities or the formal elegance of fascism.
Frank Kermode (The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction)
The Wasteland was an empty car park behind a long abandoned pub. Minah like it because she said it reminded her of the permanence of concrete in stark contrast to the entropy of humanity. Harrison had dubbed it the Wasteland after the TS Eliot poem, because it was full of disillusionment and despair.
Lili Wilkinson (The Boundless Sublime)
To have memory return is to find consciousness pervaded by a variety of identifications, all simultaneously composing and fragmenting a shared public space, until that space itself seems to authorise another, far more abstract and imposing 'I'.
Charles Altieri
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
King Vortigern/T.S. Eliot