Because I know that time is always time and place is always and only place and what is actual is actual only for one time and only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face and renounce the voice because I cannot hope to turn again.
Because I do not hope to turn again, because I do not hope, because I do not hope to turn, desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things.
April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
And they write innumerable books; being too vain and distracted for silence: seeking every one after his own elevation, and dodging his emptiness.
And the wind shall say: ‘Here were decent godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road and a thousand lost golf balls’.
Ambition fortifies the will of man to become ruler over other men: it operates with deception, cajolery, and violence, it is the action of impurity upon impurity.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance.
All dash to and fro in motor cars, familiar with the roads and settled nowhere.
