"I have measured out my life in coffee spoons . . . Then how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? . . . And would it have been worth it after all? . . . Would it have been worth while, to have bitten off the matter with a smile, to have squeezed the universe into a ball, to roll it toward some overwhelming question, to say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'–If one, settling a pillow by her head, should say: 'That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.'"–T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"