There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
T. S. EliotRead
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.
Interpretation
An artist must continuously give up parts of themselves to grow and create.
This quote by T. S. Eliot emphasizes the idea that an artist's journey requires a constant process of sacrifice. To create meaningful art, one often has to let go of personal ego and identity, allowing their work to flourish independently of their personality. This self-extinction is not a loss, but rather a transformation that enriches the artist's output and fosters genuine expression.
In practice
In an art workshop, discussing how personal experiences shape artistic expression.
There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
Half of the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don't mean to do harm. But the harm does not interest them.
I am an Anglo-Catholic in religion, a classicist in literature and a royalist in politics.
If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
For I have known them all already, known them allβ Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
I've been told, and I think I recognize it, that there's a cinematic quality to my writing, with a sense of image and place and scene - and, some would say, my tendency to finish my books the way Hollywood finishes its films.
The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Poetry reveals that there is no empty space.
Picasso is what is going to happen and what is happening; he is posterity and archaic time, the distant ancestor and our next-door neighbor. Speed permits him to be two places at once, to belong to all the centuries without letting go of the here and now.
After the film it was raining, a light steady rain. Ruthless neon on the wet streets like busted candy.
What makes me write is the rhythm of the world around me - the rhythms of the language, of course, but also of the land, the wind, the sky, other lives. Before the words comes the rhythm - that seems to me to be of the essence.
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