 
  


    ,        ,  .   ,  ,   ,   .   ,  , G ,   .





 



  



  



  ,2022

 , ,2022



ISBN978-5-4498-6717-9

     Ridero






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Mr. Eliot Sunday Morning Service

(Tomas Eliot)


Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.


		The jew ofMalta.

		Poly philoprogenitive
		the sapient sutlers oftheLord
		Drift across the window-panes.
		Inthe beginning was the Word.
		Superfetation oftoen,
		and at the mensual turn oftime
		Produced enervate Origen.
		Apainter ofthe Umbrian school
		Designed upon agesso ground
		the nimbus ofthe BaptizedGod.
		the wilderness is cracked and browned
		but through the water pale andthin
		Still shine the unoffendingfeet
		and there above the painterset
		the Father and the Paraclete.
		..
		The sable presbyters approach
		the avenue ofpenitence;
		the young are red and pustular
		Clutching piaculative pence.
		Under the penitential gates
		Sustained bystaring Seraphim
		Where the souls ofthe devout
		Burn invisible anddim.
		Along the garden-wall thebees
		With hairy bellies pass between
		The staminate and pistilate,
		Blest office ofthe epicene.
		Sweeney shifts from ham toham
		Stirring the water inhis bath.
		The masters ofthe subtle schools
		Are controversial, polymath.




 

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The Hippopotamus

(Tomas Eliot)


		The broad-backed hippopotamus
		Rests on his belly inthemud;
		Although he seems so firm tous
		He is merely flesh and blood.
		Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
		Susceptible tonervous shock;
		While the True Church can neverfail
		For it is based upon arock.
		The hippos feeble steps mayerr
		Incompassing material ends,
		While the True Church need neverstir
		Togather inits dividends.
		The potamus can never reach
		The mango on the mango-tree;
		But fruits ofpomegranate and peach
		Refresh the Church from oversea.
		At mating time the hippos voice
		Betrays inflexions hoarse andodd,
		But every week we hear rejoice
		The Church, at being one withGod.
		The hippopotamussday
		Is passed insleep; at night he hunts;
		God works inamysterious way
		The Church can sleep and feed at once.
		Isaw the potamus takewing
		Ascending from the damp savannas,
		And quiring angels round himsing
		The praise ofGod, inloud hosannas.
		Blood ofthe Lamb shall wash him clean
		And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
		Among the saints he shall beseen
		Performing on aharp ofgold.
		He shall be washed as white as snow,
		Byall the martyred virgins kist,
		While the True Church remains below
		Wrapt inthe old miasmal mist.




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Burbank with aBaedeker: Bleistein with aCigar

(Tomas Eliot)


		Burbank crossed alittle bridge
		Descending at asmall hotel;
		Princess Volupine arrived,
		They were together, and he fell.
		Defunctive music undersea
		Passed seaward with the passingbell
		Slowly: the God Hercules
		Had left him, that had loved him well.
		The horses, under the axletree
		Beat up the dawn from Istria
		With even feet. Her shuttered barge
		Burned on the water all theday.
		But this or such was Bleisteinsway:
		Asaggy bending ofthe knees
		And elbows, with the palms turnedout,
		Chicago Semite Viennese.
		Alustreless protrusiveeye
		Stares from the protozoic slime
		At aperspective ofCanaletto.
		The smoky candle end oftime
		Declines. On the Rialto once.
		The rats are underneath the piles.
		The jew is underneath thelot.
		Money infurs. The boatman smiles,
		Princess Volupine extends
		Ameagre, blue-nailed, phthisichand
		Toclimb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
		She entertains Sir Ferdinand
		Klein. Who clipped the lions wings
		And flead his rump and pared his claws?
		Thought Burbank, meditatingon
		Times ruins, and the seven laws.




 

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Lune de Miel (Honeymoon)

(Tomas Eliot)


		They have seen the Low Countries, they are going Terre Haute;
		But one summer night finding them inRavenna, atease
		Between two sheets inthe home oftwo hundred bugs,
		The sweat ofsummer, and the smell ofabitch inheat,
		They lie on their backs and spread apart the knees
		Offour sticky legs all swollen with bites.
		They raise the sheet so that they can scratch better.
		Less than amile from here is Saint Apollinare inClasse,
		The basilica known toenthusiasts
		For its acanthus columns which the wind batters.
		At eight oclock they will catch the train
		Toprolong their miseries from Padua toMilan
		Where they will find The Last Supper, and an inexpensive
		Restaurant. He will calculate the tip with apencil.
		They will have seen Switzerland and crossed France.
		And Saint Apollinare, straight and ascetic,
		Old, disaffected mill ofGod, still keeps




 

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ADedication ToMyWife

(Tomas Eliot)


		Towhom Iowe the leaping delight
		That quickens my senses inour wakingtime
		And the rhythm that governs the repose ofour sleeping time,
		the breathing inunison.
		Oflovers whose bodies smell ofeach other
		Who think the same thoughts without need ofspeech,
		And babble the same speech without need ofmeaning.
		No peevish winter wind shall chill
		No sullen tropic sun shall wither
		The roses inthe rose-garden which is ours and only.
		But this dedication is for others toread:
		These are private words addressed toyou inpublic.




 

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Dans le Restaurant

(Tomas Eliot)


		The waiter idle and dilapidated
		With nothing todo but scratch and lean over my shoulder
		Says:
		Inmy country the rain is colder
		And the sun hotter and the ground more desiccated
		and desecrated.
		Voluminous and spuminous with aleguminous
		and cannimaculated vest-front and pant front
		and agraveyperpulchafied yesterdays napkin inaloop
		over his elbow
		(Ihope he will not sputter into the soup)
		Down inaditch under the willow trees
		Where you go toget out oftherain
		Itried invain,
		Imean Iwas interrupted
		She was all wet with the deluge and her calico skirt
		stuck toher buttocks and belly,
		Iput my hand up and she giggled,
		You old cut-up,
		At the age ofeight what can one do,sir,
		she was younger
		Besides Id no sooner got started than abig poodle
		Came sniffing about and scared me pealess,
		Your head is not flealess
		now at any rate, go scrape the cheese off yourpate
		and dig the slush out ofyour crowsfeet,
		take sixpence and get washed, Goddamn
		what afate
		You crapulous vapulous relic, you ambulating offence
		Tohave had an experience
		so nearly parallel, with,.
		Go away,
		Iwas about tosay mine,
		Ishalldine
		elsewhere infuture,
		tocleanse this suture.
		Phlebas the Phenicien, fairest ofmen,
		Straight and tall, having been born inacaul
		Lost luck at forty, and lay drowned
		Two long weeks insea water, tossed ofthe
		streams under sea, carried ofcurrents
		Forgetful ofthe gains
		forgetful ofthe long days ofseafare
		Forgetful ofmews crying and the foam swept coast
		ofCornwall,
		Born back at last, afterdays
		tothe ports and stays ofhis young life,
		Afair man, ports ofhis former seafare thither atlast






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Acookingegg

(Tomas Eliot)


		Pipit sate upright inher chair
		Some distance from where Iwas sitting;
		Views ofthe Oxford Colleges
		Lay on the table, with the knitting.
		Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
		Her grandfather and great great aunts,
		Supported on the mantelpiece
		An Invitation tothe Dance.
		..
		Ishall not want Honour inHeaven
		For Ishall meet Sir Philip Sidney
		And have talk with Coriolanus
		And other heroes ofthat kidney.
		Ishall not want Capital inHeaven
		For Ishall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
		We two shall lie together,lapt
		Inafive per cent Exchequer Bond.
		Ishall not want Society inHeaven,
		Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
		Her anecdotes will be more amusing
		Than Pipits experience could provide.
		Ishall not want Pipit inHeaven:
		Madame Blavatsky will instructme
		Inthe Seven Sacred Trances;
		Picard de Donati will conductme
		But where is the penny world Ibought
		Toeat with Pipit behind the screen?
		The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
		From Kentish Town and Golders Green;
		Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
		Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
		Over buttered scones and crumpets
		Weeping, weeping multitudes
		Droop inahundredA.B.C.s*




 

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Whispers ofimmortality

(Tomas Eliot)


		Webster was much possessed bydeath
		And saw the skull beneath the skin;
		And breast less creatures under ground
		Leaned backward with alipless grin.
		Daffodil bulbs instead ofballs
		Stared from the sockets ofthe eyes!
		He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
		Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
		Donne, Isuppose, was such another
		Who found no substitute for sense,
		Toseize and clutch and penetrate;
		Expert beyond experience,
		He knew the anguish ofthe marrow
		The ague ofthe skeleton;
		No contact possible toflesh
		Allayed the fever ofthe bone.
		..
		Grishkin is nice: her Russianeye
		Is underlined for emphasis;
		Uncorseted, her friendlybust
		Gives promise ofpneumatic bliss.
		The couched Brazilian jaguar
		Compels the scampering marmoset
		With subtle effluence ofcat;
		Grishkin has amaisonnette;
		The sleek Brazilian jaguar
		Does not inits arboreal gloom
		Distil so rank afeline smell
		As Grishkin inadrawing-room.
		And even the Abstract Entities
		Circumambulate her charm;
		But our lot crawls between dryribs
		Tokeep our metaphysics warm.




 

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Sweeney Erect

(Tomas Eliot)


		And the trees aboutme,
		Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
		Groan with continual surges; and behindme,
		Make all adesolation. Look, look, wenches!
		Paint me acavernous waste shore
		Cast inthe un stilled Cyclades,
		Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
		Faced bythe snarled and yelping seas.
		Display me Aeolus above
		Reviewing the insurgent gales
		Which tangle Ariadneshair
		And swell with haste the perjured sails.
		Morning stirs the feet and hands
		Nausicaa and Polypheme,
		Gesture oforang-outang
		Rises from the sheets insteam.
		This withered root ofknots ofhair
		Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
		This oval Ocropped out with teeth:
		The sickle motion from the thighs
		Jackknifes upward at the knees
		Then straightens out from heel tohip
		Pushing the framework ofthebed
		And clawing at the pillow slip.
		Sweeney addressed full length toshave
		Broadbottomed, pink from nape tobase,
		Knows the female temperament
		And wipes the suds around his face.
		The lengthened shadow ofaman
		Is history, said Emerson
		Who had not seen the silhouette
		OfSweeney straddled inthesun.
		Tests the razor on hisleg
		Waiting until the shriek subsides.
		The epileptic on thebed
		Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
		The ladies ofthe corridor
		Find themselves involved, disgraced,
		Call witness totheir principles
		And deprecate the lack oftaste
		Observes that hysteria
		Might easily be misunderstood;
		Mrs. Turner intimates
		It does the house no sort ofgood.
		But Doris, towelled from the bath,
		Enters padding on broad feet,
		Bringing sal volatile
		And aglass ofbrandy neat.




  

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Sweeney among the Nightingales

(Tomas Eliot)


		Apeneck Sweeney spread his knees
		Letting his arms hang down tolaugh,
		The zebra stripes along hisjaw
		Swelling tomaculate giraffe.
		The circles ofthe stormymoon
		Slide westward toward the River Plate,
		Death and the Raven drift above
		And Sweeney guards the horn; dgate.
		Gloomy Orion and theDog
		Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
		The person inthe Spanishcape
		Tries tosit on Sweeneys knees
		Slips and pulls the table cloth
		Overturns acoffee-cup,
		Reorganised upon the floor
		She yawns and draws astockingup;
		The silent man inmocha brown
		Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
		The waiter brings inoranges
		Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;
		The silent vertebrate inbrown
		Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
		Rachel n;e Rabinovitch
		Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
		She and the lady inthecape
		Are suspect, thought tobe inleague;
		Therefore the man with heavyeyes
		Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
		Leaves the room and reappears
		Outside the window, leaningin,
		Branches ofwistaria
		Circumscribe agolden grin;
		The host with someone indistinct
		Converses at the door apart,
		The nightingales are singingnear
		The Convent ofthe Sacred Heart,
		And sang within the bloodywood
		When Agamemnon cried aloud
		And let their liquid siftingsfall
		Tostain the stiff dishonoured shroud.




   

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The Love Song ofJ. Alfred Prufrock

(Tomas Eliot)


		Sio credesse che mia risposta fosse
		Apersona che mai tornasse al mondo,
		Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
		Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
		Non torno vivo alcun, siodo il vero,
		Senza tema dinfamia ti rispondo.
		Let us go then, you andI,
		When the evening is spread out against thesky
		Like apatient etherized upon atable;
		Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
		The muttering retreats
		Ofrestless nights inone-night cheap hotels
		And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
		Streets that follow like atedious argument
		Ofinsidious intent
		Tolead you toan overwhelming question
		Oh, do not ask, What isit?
		Let us go and make our visit.
		Inthe room the women come andgo
		Talking ofMichelangelo.
		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 ofthe evening,
		Lingered upon the pools that stand indrains,
		Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
		Slipped bythe terrace, made asudden leap,
		And seeing that it was asoft October night,
		Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
		And indeed there will betime
		For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
		Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
		There will be time, there will betime
		Toprepare aface tomeet the faces that you meet;
		There will be time tomurder and create,
		And time for all the works and days ofhands
		That lift and drop aquestion on your plate;
		Time for you and time forme,
		And time yet for ahundred indecisions,
		And for ahundred visions and revisions,
		Before the taking ofatoast andtea.
		Inthe room the women come andgo
		Talking ofMichelangelo.
		And indeed there will betime
		Towonder, Do Idare? and, Do Idare?
		Time toturn back and descend the stair,
		With abald spot inthe middle ofmy hair
		(They will say: How his hair is growing thin!)
		My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly tothe chin,
		My necktie rich and modest, but asserted byasimple pin
		(They will say: But how his arms and legs are thin!)
		Do Idare
		Disturb the universe?
		Inaminute there istime
		For decisions and revisions which aminute will reverse.
		For Ihave known them all already, known themall:
		Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
		Ihave measured out my life with coffee spoons;
		Iknow the voices dying with adyingfall
		Beneath the music from afarther room.
		So how should Ipresume?
		And Ihave known the eyes already, known themall
		The eyes that fix you inaformulated phrase,
		And when Iam formulated, sprawling on apin,
		When Iam pinned and wriggling on the wall,
		Then how should Ibegin
		Tospit out all the butt-ends ofmy days and ways?
		And how should Ipresume?
		And Ihave known the arms already, known themall
		Arms that are brace leted and white andbare
		(But inthe lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
		Is it perfume from adress
		That makes me so digress?
		Arms that lie along atable, or wrap about ashawl.
		And should Ithen presume?
		And how should Ibegin?
		Shall Isay, Ihave gone at dusk through narrow streets
		And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
		Oflonely men inshirt-sleeves, leaning out ofwindows?
		Ishould have been apair ofragged claws
		Scuttling across the floors ofsilent seas.
		And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
		Smoothed bylong fingers,
		Asleep tired or it malingers,
		Stretched on the floor, here beside you andme.
		Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
		Have the strength toforce the moment toits crisis?
		But though Ihave wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
		Though Ihave seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought inupon aplatter,
		Iam no prophet and heres no great matter;
		Ihave seen the moment ofmy greatness flicker,
		And Ihave seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
		And inshort, Iwas afraid.
		And would it have been worth it, afterall,
		After the cups, the marmalade, thetea,
		Among the porcelain, among some talk ofyou andme,
		Would it have been worth while,
		Tohave bitten off the matter with asmile,
		Tohave squeezed the universe into aball
		Toroll it towards some overwhelming question,
		Tosay: Iam Lazarus, come from the dead,
		Come back totell you all, Ishall tell you all
		If one, settling apillow byherhead
		Should say: That is not what Imeant atall;
		That is not it, at all.
		And would it have been worth it, afterall,
		Would it have been worth while,
		After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
		After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
		And this, and so much more?
		It is impossible tosay just what Imean!
		But as if amagic lantern threw the nerves inpatterns on ascreen:
		Would it have been worth while
		If one, settling apillow or throwing off ashawl,
		And turning toward the window, shouldsay:
		That is not it atall,
		That is not what Imeant, at all.
		No! Iam not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant tobe;
		Am an attendant lord, one that willdo
		Toswell aprogress, start ascene ortwo,
		Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
		Deferential, glad tobe ofuse,
		Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
		Full ofhigh sentence, but abit obtuse;
		At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
		Almost, at times, the Fool.
		Igrow old Igrowold
		Ishall wear the bottoms ofmy trousers rolled.
		Shall Ipart my hair behind? Do Idare toeat apeach?
		Ishall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
		Ihave heard the mermaids singing, each toeach.
		Ido not think that they will sing tome.
		Ihave seen them riding seaward on the waves
		Combing the white hair ofthe waves blownback
		When the wind blows the water white and black.
		We have lingered inthe chambers ofthesea
		Bysea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
		Till human voices wake us, and we drown.




 

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1. Burnt Norton

(T.S.Eliot. No. 1ofFour Quartets)


		1.1

		Time present and timepast
		Are both perhaps present intime future,
		And time future contained intime past.
		If all time is eternally present
		All time is unredeemable.
		What might have been is an abstraction
		Remaining aperpetual possibility
		Only inaworld ofspeculation.
		What might have been and what hasbeen
		Point toone end, which is always present.
		Footfalls echo inthe memory
		Down the passage which we did nottake
		Towards the door we never opened
		Into the rose-garden. My wordsecho
		Thus, inyour mind.
		But towhat purpose
		Disturbing the dust on abowl ofrose-leaves
		Ido not know.
		Other echoes
		Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
		Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
		Round the corner. Through the first gate,
		Into our first world, shall we follow
		The deception ofthe thrush? Into our first world.
		There they were, dignified, invisible,
		Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
		Inthe autumn heat, through the vibrantair,
		And the bird called, inresponseto
		The unheard music hidden inthe shrubbery,
		And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
		Had the look offlowers that are lookedat.
		There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
		So we moved, and they, inaformal pattern,
		Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
		Tolook down into the drained pool.
		Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
		And the pool was filled with water out ofsunlight,
		And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
		The surface glittered out ofheart oflight,
		And they were behind us, reflected inthe pool.
		Then acloud passed, and the pool was empty.
		Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full ofchildren,
		Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
		Go, go, go, said the bird: humankind
		Cannot bear very much reality.
		Time past and time future
		What might have been and what hasbeen
		Point toone end, which is always present.

		1.2

		Garlic and sapphires inthemud
		Clot the bedded axle-tree.
		The trilling wire inthe blood
		Sings below inveterate scars
		Appeasing long forgotten wars.
		The dance along the artery
		The circulation ofthe lymph
		Are figured inthe drift ofstars
		Ascend tosummer inthetree
		We move above the movingtree
		Inlight upon the figuredleaf
		And hear upon the sodden floor
		Below, the boarhound and theboar
		Pursue their pattern as before
		But reconciled among the stars.
		At the still point ofthe turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
		Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the danceis,
		But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
		Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
		Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
		There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
		Ican only say, there we have been: but Icannot say where.
		And Icannot say, how long, for that is toplace it intime.
		The inner freedom from the practical desire,
		The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
		And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
		Byagrace ofsense, awhite light still and moving,
		Erhebung without motion, concentration
		Without elimination, both anew world
		And the old made explicit, understood
		Inthe completion ofits partial ecstasy,
		The resolution ofits partial horror.
		Yet the enchainment ofpast and future
		Woven inthe weakness ofthe changing body,
		Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
		Which flesh cannot endure.
		Time past and time future
		Allow but alittle consciousness.
		Tobe conscious is not tobe intime
		But only intime can the moment inthe rose-garden,
		The moment inthe arbour where the rain beat,
		The moment inthe draughty church at smokefall
		Be remembered; involved with past and future.
		Only through time time is conquered.

		1.3

		Here is aplace ofdisaffection
		Time before and time after
		Inadim light: neither daylight
		Investing form with lucid stillness
		Turning shadow into transient beauty
		With slow rotation suggesting permanence
		Nor darkness topurify thesoul
		Emptying the sensual with deprivation
		Cleansing affection from the temporal.
		Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only aflicker
		Over the strained time-ridden faces
		Distracted from distraction bydistraction
		Filled with fancies and empty ofmeaning
		Tumid apathy with no concentration
		Men and bits ofpaper, whirled bythe coldwind
		That blows before and after time,
		Wind inand out ofunwholesome lungs
		Time before and time after.
		Eructation ofunhealthy souls
		Into the faded air, the torpid
		Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills ofLondon,
		Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
		Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Nothere
		Not here the darkness, inthis twittering world.
		Descend lower, descendonly
		Into the world ofperpetual solitude,
		World not world, but that which is not world,
		Internal darkness, deprivation
		And destitution ofall property,
		Desiccation ofthe world ofsense,
		Evacuation ofthe world offancy,
		Inoperancy ofthe world ofspirit;
		This is the one way, and the other
		Is the same, not inmovement
		But abstention from movement; while the world moves
		Inappetency, on its metalledways
		Oftime past and time future.

		1.4

		Time and the bell have buried theday,
		The black cloud carries the sun away.
		Will the sunflower turn tous, will the clematis
		Stray down, bend tous; tendril and spray
		Clutch and cling?
		Chill
		Fingers ofyew be curled
		Down on us? After the kingfisherswing
		Has answered light tolight, and is silent, the light is still
		At the still point ofthe turning world.

		1.5

		Words move, music moves
		Only intime; but that which is only living
		Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
		Into the silence. Only bythe form, the pattern,
		Can words or music reach
		The stillness, as aChinese jar still
		Moves perpetually inits stillness.
		Not the stillness ofthe violin, while the note lasts,
		Not that only, but the co-existence,
		Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
		And the end and the beginning were always there
		Before the beginning and after theend.
		And all is always now. Words strain,
		Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
		Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
		Decay with imprecision, will not stay inplace,
		Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
		Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
		Always assail them. The Word inthe desert
		Is most attacked byvoices oftemptation,
		The crying shadow inthe funeral dance,
		The loud lament ofthe disconsolate chimera.
		The detail ofthe pattern is movement,
		As inthe figure ofthe ten stairs.
		Desire itself is movement
		Not initself desirable;
		Love is itself unmoving,
		Only the cause and end ofmovement,
		Timeless, and undesiring
		Except inthe aspect oftime
		Caught inthe form oflimitation
		Between un-being and being.
		Sudden inashaft ofsunlight
		Even while the dust moves
		There rises the hidden laughter
		Ofchildren inthe foliage
		Quick now, here, now, always
		Ridiculous the waste sadtime
		Stretching before and after.




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2.East Coker

(T.S.Eliot. No. 2ofFour Quartets)


		2.1

		Inmy beginning is my end. Insuccession
		Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
		Are removed, destroyed, restored, or intheir place
		Is an open field, or afactory, or aby-pass.
		Old stone tonew building, old timber tonew fires,
		Old fires toashes, and ashes tothe earth
		Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
		Bone ofman and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
		Houses live and die: there is atime for building
		And atime for living and for generation
		And atime for the wind tobreak the loosenedpane
		And toshake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
		And toshake the tattered arras woven with asilent motto.
		Inmy beginning is my end. Now the light falls
		Across the open field, leaving the deeplane
		Shuttered with branches, dark inthe afternoon,
		Where you lean against abank while avan passes,
		And the deep lane insists on the direction
		Into the village, inthe electricheat
		Hypnotised. Inawarm haze the sultry light
		Is absorbed, not refracted, bygrey stone.
		The dahlias sleep inthe empty silence.
		Wait for the earlyowl.
		Inthat open field
		If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
		On asummer midnight, you can hear the music
		Ofthe weak pipe and the littledrum
		And see them dancing around the bonfire
		The association ofman and woman
		Indaun singe, signifying matrimonie
		Adignified and commodiois sacrament.
		Two and two, necessary conun action,
		Holding eche other bythe hand or thearm
		Whichever betokeneth concorde. Round and round thefire
		Leaping through the flames, or joined incircles,
		Rustically solemn or inrustic laughter
		Lifting heavy feet inclumsy shoes,
		Earth feet, loam feet, lifted incountry mirth
		Mirth ofthose long since under earth
		Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
		Keeping the rhythm intheir dancing
		As intheir living inthe living seasons
		The time ofthe seasons and the constellations
		The time ofmilking and the time ofharvest
		The time ofthe coupling ofman and woman
		And that ofbeasts. Feet rising and falling.
		Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
		Dawn points, and anotherday
		Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawnwind
		Wrinkles and slides. Iamhere
		Or there, or elsewhere. Inmy beginning.

		2.2

		What is the late November doing
		With the disturbance ofthe spring
		And creatures ofthe summer heat,
		And snowdrops writhing underfeet
		And hollyhocks that aim toohigh
		Red into grey and tumbledown
		Late roses filled with early snow?
		Thunder rolled bythe rolling stars
		Simulates triumphalcars
		Deployed inconstellatedwars
		Scorpion fights against theSun
		Until the Sun and Moon godown
		Comets weep and Leonidsfly
		Hunt the heavens and the plains
		Whirled inavortex that shall bring
		The world tothat destructivefire
		Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
		That was away ofputting it not very satisfactory:
		Aperiphrastic study inaworn-out poetical fashion,
		Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
		With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
		It was not (tostart again) what one had expected.
		What was tobe the value ofthe long looked forwardto,
		Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
		And the wisdom ofage? Had they deceivedus
		Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
		Bequeathing us merely areceipt for deceit?
		The serenity only adeliberate hebetude,
		The wisdom only the knowledge ofdead secrets
		Useless inthe darkness into which they peered
		Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems tous,
		At best, only alimited value
		Inthe knowledge derived from experience.
		The knowledge imposes apattern, and falsifies,
		For the pattern is new inevery moment
		And every moment is anew and shocking
		Valuation ofall we have been. We are only undeceived
		Ofthat which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
		Inthe middle, not only inthe middle oftheway
		But all the way, inadark wood, inabramble,
		On the edge ofagrimpen, where is no secure foothold,
		And menaced bymonsters, fancy lights,
		Risking enchantment. Do not let mehear
		Ofthe wisdom ofold men, but rather oftheir folly,
		Their fear offear and frenzy, their fear ofpossession,
		Ofbelonging toanother, or toothers, or toGod.
		The only wisdom we can hope toacquire
		Is the wisdom ofhumility: humility is endless.
		The houses are all gone under thesea.
		The dancers are all gone under the hill.

		2.3

		Odark, dark, dark. They all go into the dark,
		The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
		The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men ofletters,
		The generous patrons ofart, the statesmen and the rulers,
		Distinguished civil servants, chairmen ofmany committees,
		Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
		And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
		And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory ofDirectors,
		And cold the sense and lost the motive ofaction.
		And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
		Nobodys funeral, for there is no one tobury.
		Isaid tomy soul, be still, and let the dark come uponyou
		Which shall be the darkness ofGod. As, inatheatre,
		The lights are extinguished, for the scene tobe changed
		With ahollow rumble ofwings, with amovement ofdarkness on darkness,
		And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
		And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away
		Or as, when an underground train, inthe tube, stops too long between stations
		And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
		And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
		Leaving only the growing terror ofnothing tothink about;
		Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious ofnothing
		Isaid tomy soul, be still, and wait withouthope
		For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
		For love would be love ofthe wrong thing; there is yet faith
		But the faith and the love and the hope are all inthe waiting.
		Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
		So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
		Whisper ofrunning streams, and winter lightning.
		The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
		The laughter inthe garden, echoed ecstasy
		Not lost, but requiring, pointing tothe agony
		Ofdeath and birth.
		You say Iam repeating
		Something Ihave said before. Ishall say it again.
		Shall Isay it again? Inorder toarrive there,
		Toarrive where you are, toget from where you arenot,
		You must go byaway wherein there is no ecstasy.
		Inorder toarrive at what you do notknow
		You must go byaway which is the way ofignorance.
		Inorder topossess what you do not possess
		You must go bythe way ofdispossession.
		Inorder toarrive at what you arenot
		You must go through the way inwhich you arenot.
		And what you do not know is the only thing youknow
		And what you own is what you do notown
		And where you are is where you arenot.

		2.4

		The wounded surgeon plies the steel
		That questions the distempered part;
		Beneath the bleeding hands wefeel
		The sharp compassion ofthe healersart
		Resolving the enigma ofthe fever chart.
		Our only health is the disease
		If we obey the dying nurse
		Whose constant care is not toplease
		But toremind ofour, and Adams curse,
		And that, tobe restored, our sickness must grow worse.
		The whole earth is our hospital
		Endowed bythe ruined millionaire,
		Wherein, if we do well, we shall
		Die ofthe absolute paternalcare
		That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
		The chill ascends from feet toknees,
		The fever sings inmental wires.
		And quake infrigid purgatorial fires
		Ofwhich the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
		The dripping blood our only drink,
		The bloody flesh our only food:
		Inspite ofwhich we like tothink
		That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood
		Again, inspite ofthat, we call this Friday good.

		2.5

		So here Iam, inthe middle way, having had twenty years
		Twenty years largely wasted, the years oflentre deux guerres
		Trying touse words, and every attempt
		Is awholly new start, and adifferent kind offailure
		Because one has only learnt toget the better ofwords
		For the thing one no longer has tosay, or the way inwhich
		One is no longer disposed tosay it. And so each venture
		Is anew beginning, araid on the inarticulate
		With shabby equipment always deteriorating
		Inthe general mess ofimprecision offeeling,
		Undisciplined squads ofemotion. And what there is toconquer
		Bystrength and submission, has already been discovered
		Once or twice, or several times, bymen whom one cannothope
		Toemulate but there is no competition
		There is only the fight torecover what has beenlost
		And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
		That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
		For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
		Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
		The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
		Ofdead and living. Not the intense moment
		Isolated, with no before and after,
		But alifetime burning inevery moment
		And not the lifetime ofone manonly
		But ofold stones that cannot be deciphered.
		There is atime for the evening under starlight,
		Atime for the evening under lamplight
		(The evening with the photograph album).
		Love is most nearly itself
		When here and now cease tomatter.
		Old men ought tobe explorers
		Here or there does not matter
		We must be still and still moving
		Into another intensity
		For afurther union, adeeper communion
		Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
		The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
		Ofthe petrel and the porpoise. Inmy end is my beginning.




3. 

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		3.1

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