Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness.

Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow

Never commit yourself to a cheese without having first examined it.

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.

If one has to earn a living, therefore, the safest occupation is that most remote from the arts.

Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.

If you start with a bang, you won't end with a whimper.