Zitate von Thomas Stearns Eliot
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Thomas Stearns Eliot:
Von Shakespeare läßt sich sagen, daß nie ein Mensch so wenig Wissen in soviel Weisheit verwandelt hat.
Informationen über Thomas Stearns Eliot
Dichter, Kritiker, "Das wüste Land", "Aschermittwoch", Nobelpreis für Literatur/1948 (England/USA, 1888 - 1965).
Thomas Stearns Eliot · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Thomas Stearns Eliot wäre heute 135 Jahre, 6 Monate, 29 Tage oder 49.518 Tage alt.
Geboren am 26.09.1888 in Saint Louis
Gestorben am 04.01.1965 in London
Sternzeichen: ♎ Waage
Unbekannt
Weitere 145 Zitate von Thomas Stearns Eliot
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And the wind shall say: 'Here were decent godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road And a thousand lost golf balls.'
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And what the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
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Any man has to, needs to, wants to Once in a lifetime, do a girl in.
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Any man might do a girl in / Any man has to, needs to wants to / once in a lifetime, do a girl in.
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April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
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April is the curellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
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Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house- The wall, the wainscot and the mouse. The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.
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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.
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At the violet hour, when the eyes andback Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I, Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
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Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn.
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Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
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Birth, and copulation, and death. That's all the facts when you come to brass tacks: Birth, and copulation, and death. I've been born, and once is enough.
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But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water.
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But set down - This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
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Clear the air! clean the sky! wash the wind! take the stone from stone, take the skin from the arm, take the muscle from bone, and wash them.
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Culture is a people's whole way of life, everything that makes life worth living.
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Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
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Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
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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.
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Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.