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  CR,
   
  That was a sonnet by Sri Aurobindo, titled 'Nirvana'.  
   
  While in the case of Eliot (and Wordsworth, of course) the experience seemed to have been fleeting, 'I lived on this Nirvana day and night before it starts to admite other things within or become absolute ' says Sri Aurobindo.  He found that ‘The Nirvana cannot be the end of the Path with no more to explore’.  Perhaps there we see the difference in the mystical experience that most of us come across in our lives, but in some of whom it affects differently. While Wordsworth groped with his sense of nature, Eliot groped with his search for religious experiences in his Christian past.  
   
  
  

cr mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
    Vishvesh,
   
  Thanks for sharing this beautiful quotation (who wrote this?) --
  a wonderful expression of the mystical experience. Yes, it does 
  certainly resemble Eliot's. As you know, all mystical experience
  is at heart the same -- an experience of the Absolute. The aspects
  of the experience -- ineffable peace, tranquility, bliss etc. -- are
  more or less the same though each expression of it is unique.
   
  Let me quote the poem 'Silence' from 'Inventions of the March Hare' :
   
  --------------------------------
   
  Silence
   
  Along the city streets
  It is still high tide,
  Yet the garrulous waves of life
  Shrink and divide
  With a thousand incidents
  Vexed and debated:--
  This is the hour for which we waited --
   
  This is the ultimate hour
  When life is justified.
  The seas of experience
  That were so broad and deep,
  So immediate and steep,
  Are suddenly still.
  You may say what you will,
  At such peace I am terrified.
  There is nothing else beside.
   
  --------------------------------
   
  ~ CR
  

Vishvesh Obla <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
    CR,
   
  That was an interesting quote (of Eliot's mystical experience).  I would love to read his 'Silence' if it was available.  
   
  Do you think Eliot's experience could be related to this poem:
  
'All is abolished but the mute Alone.
The mind from thought released, the heart from grief,
Grow inexistent now beyond belief;
There is no I, no Nature, known-unknown.
The city, a shadow picture without tone,
Floats, quivers unreal; forms without relief
Flow, a cinema's vacant shapes; like a reef
Foundering in shoreless gulfs the world is done.

Only the illimitable Permanent
Is here. A Peace stupendous, featureless, still.
Replaces all, - what once was I, in It 
A silent unnamed emptiness content
Either to fade in the Unknowable
Or thrill with the luminous seas of the Infinite.'
   
    
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