T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962 Author: Visit Amazon's T. S. Eliot Page | Language: English | ISBN:
0151189781 | Format: EPUB
T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962 Description
Review
Eliot's oeuvre is not as large as that of some poets, so one might as well begin early, with 'The Love-Song of J Alfred Prufrock', and move along through The Waste Land and so to his crowning achievement, The Four Quartets. Even to a non-Christian, these deeply considered, marmoreal reflections on belief and behaviour should be inescapable. Review by Richard Hoggart, whose books include 'The Uses of Literacy' and 'First and Last Things' (
Kirkus Reviews )
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
Thomas Stearns Eliot was born in St Louis, Missouri, in 1888. He moved to England in 1914 and published his first book of poems in 1917. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948. Eliot died in 1965.
- Hardcover: 240 pages
- Publisher: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich; 1st edition (September 25, 1991)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0151189781
- ISBN-13: 978-0151189786
- Product Dimensions: 9.6 x 6.4 x 1 inches
- Shipping Weight: 1.2 pounds (View shipping rates and policies)
PRUFOCK AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS
THE LOVESONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFOCK
This poem is a beauty. The language is so fluent that it flows lightly and evenly between our ears and its music is perfect and delightful. The images build up a crown or a wreath, according to tastes, life and death mixing equally with love and gloat. Deeply shakespearian by its syntax it is pure Chopin by its music, both rhythm and notes.
THE WASTE LAND
One of T.S. Eliot's bestknown poems. What I am feeling is more an impression than a meaning. The world is old, like coming to its end, decaying. The poet sees and only sees. It is soundless and yet it is music. He brings together all sorts of recollections, experiences and small vignettes of the world, and a whole array of references to all kinds of cultures to show how the past is foregone and the future is not there. There remains only the thunder that speaks unaudible sounds of farewell on a road we cannot even see, nor follow as for that.
THE HOLLOW MEN
It is the end of the world, and this is nothing but a whimper because men are hollow. They do not contain anything. They are ghosts of history, so that history itself is a ghost and the world has no future. This poem is extremely and astoundingly modern indeed. NO FUTURE.
ASH WEDNESDAY
This poetry is entirely dedicated to death, but also to the time between birth and death, a time of turning, a time that is felt like flying, going, flowing but there is no word, no world able to whirl any sound. Men are like living deads, already dead and moving towards death with no hope, except maybe the hope of God, but God is silent, so there is the only consolation of the Lady who is also silent and comes only after death to stare more than anything else.
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