Those who talk of the bible as a monument of English prose are merely admiring it as a monument over the grave of Christianity.

With out some kind of god, man is not very intresting

[On The Waste Land:] Various critics have done me the honor to interpret the poem in terms of criticism of the contemporary world, have considered it, indeed, as an important bit of social criticism. To me it was only the relief of a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life; it is just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.

We must learn to suffer more.

Distracted from distraction by distraction

If you will not have God (and He is a jealous God), you should pay your respects to Hitler or Stalin.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep