He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in Eliot died in His publications on Eliot include T. Eliot and Prejudice , Inventions of the March Hare: Poems — , and Decisions and Revisions in T. Eliot the Panizzi Lectures, , together with True Friendship: For fifteen years he worked for The Times , where he wrote the Bibliomane column.
His imprint, the Foundling Press, began with the first separate publication of T. Eliot, they are a blazing demonstration of what literary criticism, at its best, can do for literature. The Annotated Text demonstrates that it never was the parts which mattered, but the elusive magic which made up the whole machine. Included in the Washington Post round up of Michael Dirda's 12 picks for the holidays. Wall Street Journal review login required. Join our email listserv and receive monthly updates on the latest titles.
It is out of this world, and I might write a review of this book one of these days. I have came across T. S Eliot's work before, in the format of the poem "The Wasteland" I rather enjoyed this, and I have always been eager ever since to read more of his works. I love the sheer complexity of Eliot's poetry, and the level of thought and construction that has gone into the writing, is simply amazing.
I liked this collection, but I didn't love it. There were a few poems that particularly stood out for me, and there were some I didn't care for in the least. There were some poems that I have came across T. There were some poems that focused strongly on religion, and this made it difficult for me to access or relate to them.
Overall, it is worth the time to read, even if it's a book just to dip into every now and again.
A guide to the Selected poems of T.S. Eliot,
Eliot, I had never read your poetry before. But from the first stanza of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" you captivated me and I was spellbound by your words. I find now you hold a place in my heart as one of my favourite poets. I only regret that this selection of your poems is so short, being less than pages. Also, I did not understand the poems in French very well. Translations would have been appreciated since my personal translations were rather shoddy, not to mention chop Dear T. Translations would have been appreciated since my personal translations were rather shoddy, not to mention choppy.
Though my attempts did make me laugh. Other than that, I have no complaints. Much love from your newest admirer, Me I haven't read poetry in a long time, and I'm happy I started my journey through it again with T. One of my favourite lines of my life is from one of his poems: I enjoy his writings a lot because I can always sense loss and doom on the other side of their meaning, just as well as I can see some rays of hope.
He is not one of the greats for nothing Aug 30, aya rated it it was amazing Shelves: Eliot lays himself bare, his insecurities and lowest parts offered. He is his audience, he is his reader--the root of the truth in his words. Genius and honesty combined is daunting, but there is beauty to carry you through. Apr 26, Jacqueline rated it it was amazing Shelves: Eliot has a way with words. Somehow I had managed not to read any Eliot until now, but he is obviously pretty great. A few things that stood out to me were the juxtaposition of the cosmic and the mundane, the way established images can be used and developed to create entirely new ones, and the use of ideas in combination to express a greater idea about their relationship without any further need for explanation.
I also noticed that the last line is often the best. My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand. Dust in sunlight and memory in corners Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land. These selected poems were excellent. Such skill but also a lot of profoundness. Also very insightful, I could relate and found myself in many of these. In addition to my old favourites - The Love Song of J.
Also, reading aloud Chor My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand. Also, reading aloud Choruses from 'The Rock' is fun. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust r This selection contains poems from Prufrock and Other Observations , Poems , and Ariel Poems ; choruses from his play " The Rock "; and the full texts of The Waste Land , The Hollow Men , and Ash Wednesday , From Prufrock and Other Observations Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
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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. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood. Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock. The hippo's feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea. At mating time the hippo's voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God. The hippopotamus's day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way-- The Church can sleep and feed at once. I saw the 'potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold. He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr'd virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
A guide to the Selected poems of T.S. Eliot, (Book, ) [omyhukocow.tk]
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?
Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, Come in under the shadow of this red rock , And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust [ The Burial of the Dead , pg.
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We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?
Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign? Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death. The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling and running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was you might say satisfactory. There was a Birth, certainly We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death. The Eagle soars in the summit of Heaven, The Hunter with his dogs pursues his circuit. O perpetual revolution of configured stars, O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons, O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!
The endless cycle of idea and action, Endless invention, endless experiment, Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness; Knowledge of speech, but not of silence; Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word. All our knowledge brings us nearer to death, But nearness to death no nearer to God. Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries Brings us farther from God and nearer to the Dust.
Mar 07, Carly rated it it was amazing Shelves: I can neither appreciate, nor enjoy, nor, I admit, even understand, poetry. But Eliot is different, and I don't know why. I have very little understanding of what is going on in the poems themselves, but the lines that are so seeped in meaning and imagery and are so tangible that I can taste them as I read.
I remember having to analyse the first part of "The Waste Land" in high school, and, for once, hating the ponderous application of reason and logic and inference and analysis to something that, to me, stands outside and in some ways beyond meaning. So I don't really analyse the poems. I just read them for those evocative lines.
A few of my favourites: Due to my disapproval of GR's new and highly subjective review deletion policy , I am no longer posting full reviews here. The rest of this review can be found on Booklikes. I've been thoroughly reading my copy of T.
- The Poems of T. S. Eliot.
- The Auction Box Set.
- Arnold Himmelheber (German Edition).
His poems are, in essence, right up my street: I myself frequently write dark, negative poetry, rather than happy positive verse. For this reason then, something in Eliot's poetry certainly strikes a cord with me. The Waste Land in particular ; although littered with references which can at times disrupt the flow, the language is beautiful in its darkness. The more I read and re-read these in the coming months, and I start to understand more clearly the layered meanings and metaphors, I'm sure my appreciation of T.