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In no way did I intend to hurt your feelings or speak on behalf of other 

You may understand that after reading your note about the enlightening and 
idea-provoking way of reading FQ in this particular way I was quite 
naturally expecting to find these provoked thoughts (traces of 
enlightment?)at the end of your own posting, but failed in doing so.

It's my own point to which I still adhere (not imposing it on anyone on this 
list, however), that quoting poetry without a commentary may not be quite as 
useful, or thought-provoking, or enlightening, as it would have been if the 
commentary is attempted in the first place. As simple as that.

Sorry again if I have involuntarily caused a misunderstanding.



PS. For a change, could I suggest that we read EC with "In my end is my 
beginning" as an opening line? And proceed this way to the very beginning 
where it (the beginnig) actually proves to be "The end"?
I found EC laid out in this particular way very thought-provoking lately:-))

>From: "Jose Pereira" <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: [log in to unmask]
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: FQ by the numbers (Parts I)
>Date: Mon, 07 Jan 2002 18:30:24 +0000

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Subject: Re: FQ by the numbers (Parts I)
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<P>Thanx a lot, but I got it in my personal library and in several editions<IMG height=12 src="" width=12>&nbsp;So do to my knowledge all  the other listmembers too, at least those who are active.</P>
<P>Would love to hear your comment on the text rather than see the text once again, this time in my mailbox.</P>
<DIV></DIV>&gt;From: [log in to unmask]
<DIV></DIV>&gt;Reply-To: [log in to unmask]
<DIV></DIV>&gt;To: <[log in to unmask]>
<DIV></DIV>&gt;Subject: Re: FQ by the numbers (Parts I)
<DIV></DIV>&gt;Date: Mon, 07 Jan 2002 12:08:23 EST
<DIV></DIV>&gt;Some recent posts have reminded me of the value of reading FQ out of the intended sequence: specifically, all the Parts I together, etc.
<DIV></DIV>&gt;I've done this from time to time and have found it enlightening (or at least thought-provoking) each time.
<DIV></DIV>&gt;It's also a bit inconvenient, though, especially if one tries to do a line-by-line comparison.
<DIV></DIV>&gt;For my own purposes, I've done a cut-and-paste to facilitate this sort of review. I send it along in case it may be useful to anyone else. If I come up with anything I consider interesting on my read through, I'll pass it along and, of course, hope you'll do the same.
<DIV></DIV>&gt;I'm sending each Part as a separate email, named "FQ by the numbers (Parts I, II, etc.") I hope the formatting does not prevent its use by anyone who might be interested.
<DIV></DIV>&gt;Tom K
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Time present and time past
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Are both perhaps present in time future,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And time future contained in time past.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If all time is eternally present
<DIV></DIV>&gt; All time is unredeemable.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; What might have been is an abstraction
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Remaining a perpetual possibility
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Only in a world of speculation.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; What might have been and what has been
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Point to one end, which is always present.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Footfalls echo in the memory
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Down the passage which we did not take
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Towards the door we never opened
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Into the rose-garden. My words echo
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Thus, in your mind.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; But to what purpose
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I do not know.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Other echoes
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Round the corner. Through the first gate,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Into our first world, shall we follow
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; There they were, dignified, invisible,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Moving without pressure, over the      leaves,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the bird called, in response to
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; To look down into the drained pool.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The surface glittered out of heart of light,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Cannot bear very much reality.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Time past and time future
<DIV></DIV>&gt; What might have been and what has been
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Point to one end, which is always present.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In my beginning is my end. In succession
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Houses live and die: there is a time for building
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And a time for living and for generation
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the deep lane insists on the direction
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Into the village, in the electric heat
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Wait for the early owl.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In that open field
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Of the weak pipe and the little drum
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And see them dancing around the bonfire
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The association of man and woman
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In daunsinge, signifying matrimonieE&gt; A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Mirth of those long since under earth
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
<DIV></DIV>&gt; As in their living in the living seasons
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The time of the seasons and the constellations
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The time of milking and the time of harvest
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The time of the coupling of man and woman
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Eating and drinking. Dung and      .
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Dawn points, and another day
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Wrinkles and slides. I am here
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; (The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages—is a small
<DIV></DIV>&gt; group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with assuages.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Groaner: a whistling buoy.)
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
<DIV></DIV>&gt; By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
<DIV></DIV>&gt; By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The sea is the land's edge also, the granite
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Its hints of earlier and other creation:
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The pools where it offers to our curiosity
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the gear of foreign      men. The sea has many voices,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Many gods and many voices.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The salt is on the briar rose,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The fog is in the fir trees.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The sea howl
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the sea yelp, are different voices
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The distant rote in the granite teeth,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And under the oppression of the silent fog
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The tolling bell
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Ground swell, a time
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Older than the time of chronometers, older
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Than time counted by anxious worried women
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Lying awake, calculating the future,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And piece together the past and the future,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The future futureless, before the morning watch
<DIV></DIV>&gt; When time stops and time is never ending;
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Clangs
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The bell.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; I
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Midwinter spring is its own season
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Reflecting in a watery mirror
<DIV></DIV>&gt; A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
<DIV></DIV>&gt; In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
<DIV></DIV>&gt; The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
<DIV></DIV>&gt; But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Of snow, a bloom more sudden
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Not in the scheme of generation.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Where is the summer, the unimaginable
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Zero summer?
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you came this way,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Taking the route you would be likely to take
<DIV></DIV>&gt; From the place you would be likely to come from,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
<DIV></DIV>&gt; White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; It would be the same at the end of the journey,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you came at night like a broken king,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
<DIV></DIV>&gt; From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If at all. Either you had no purpose
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a cityE&gt; But this is the nearest, in place and time,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Now and in England.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; If you came this way,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; At any time or at any season,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; It would always be the same: you would have to put off
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Or carry report. You are here to kneel
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; And what the      had no speech for, when living,
<DIV></DIV>&gt; They can tell you, being     : the communication
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Of the      is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
<DIV></DIV>&gt; Is England and nowhere. Never and always.
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