In my beginning is my end. In succession
...
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
...
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
...
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
...
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
...
In my end is my beginning.
-- T.S. Eliot, from East Coker
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