T.S Eliot: Genuine Poet

Thomas Stearns Eliot was born on September 26, 1888 in a St. Louis, Missouri. He was born to Henry Ware Eliot, a successful entrepreneur, and Charlotte Champe Stearns, a poet. Of his six surviving siblings, he was the youngest. In 1898 he went to a preparatory school called Smith Academy. He learned Latin, Greek, French, and German.

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." (T.S)

In 1906, he attended Harvard University and graduated with a Bachelors Degree in 1909. He achieved his Masters degree in 1910, and finally settled down in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne.

"I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different." (T.S)

While there he met Jean Verdenal, a medical student. They both entered a life with intellectuals in France like Émile Durkheim, Paul Janet, Rémy de Gourmont, Pablo Picasso, and Henri Bergson.

"For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting." (T.S)

In Paris, he was given many inspirations for his writing and poetry. The environment gave him the sense of artistic and intellectual discoveries. Some of his best poems were written in Paris.Rhapsody on a Windy Night, A Cooking Egg, The Burial of the Dead, Aunt Helen, and hundreds more.

"Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself." (T.S)
He put together many collections of his poems including Four Quartets. He was also a playwriter, editor, critic, and publisher.

"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing."(T.S)
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

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….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
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 the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
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.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
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 to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

"If you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a fellow human being can pour out for you, let a young mother hear you call dear baby 'it.'" (T.S)

Questions:

What brought T.S Eliot to France? Any reason he left America to pursue his work in Paris?

T.S Eliot went to France after achieving his Bachelor's degree taking a year off before he went on to get his Master's. Going to Paris, helped his influence in the art of poetry.

Why France? Why was it appealing? How did this show up in his work?

France was booming with people like T.S. Writers and artists alike flocked to Paris for the environment and influence it had on many of them. Lots of great works came from Paris at this time.

What do I think of Eliot's work? Is it appealing?

I think T.S Eliot is a very talented writer. The way he articulates his thoughts into poetry is quite amazing. I have always been fascinated with poetry and the fact that he puts meaning and life experiences into his writing.

Based on what I have found on Eliot, would i be interested in more of his work?

I think I have become more fond of T.S Eliot, now knowing more about him. He seems very interesting and his work is different than other poets.

"In my beginning is my end." (T.S)