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Thanks CR! I'm just writing a section of my long poem in which my narrator remembers some past loves, so I printed out your selections for inspiration! Diana


From:  Chokh Raj <[log in to unmask]>
Reply-To:  "T. S. Eliot Discussion forum." <[log in to unmask]>
To:  [log in to unmask]
Subject:  Re: The Context of Marie
Date:  Thu, 19 Jul 2007 11:17:36 -0700

  
  
This is just to share some resonances.
  
 
  
CR
  
 
  
-----
  
 
  
Of Paola and Francesca (in Dante's Inferno) 
  
 
  
Thus spoke Francesca in Inferno V :
  
 
  
Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
  
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
  
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
  
Love, that denial takes from none belov'd,
  
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
  
That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not.
  
Love brought us to one death...
  
 
  
cf. Tristan and Isolde
  
 
  
-----
  
 
  
Dante to Francesca:
  
 
  
By what, and how love granted, that ye knew
  
Your yet uncertain wishes?
  
 
  
Franscesca:
  
 
  
No greater grief than to remember days
  
Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand!
  
 
  
cf. April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs...mixing / Memory and desire
  
 
  
       these April sunsets, that somehow recall
  
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring       
                                            ['Portrait']                      
  
 
  
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
  
 
  
  
-----
  
 
  
Francesca :
  
 
  
             Alone we were, and no
  
Suspicion near us. 
  
 
  
cf. In the
mountains, there you feel free.
  
 
  
Francesca:
  
 
  
                    Ofttimes by that reading
  
 [of Lancelot, / How him love thrall'd]
  
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
  
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one point
  
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
  
The wished smile, rapturously kiss'd
  
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
  
From me shall separate, at once my lips
  
All trembling kiss'd.
  
 
  
cf.
                                   He said, // Marie,
  
         Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.//               
  
 
  
    -- Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
  
    Your arms full, and your hair wet,  // I could not
  
    Speak, and my eyes failed... //
  
 
  
-----
  
 
  
a (possible/probable) realization:
  
 
  
  
  
In my beginning is my end.
  
 
  
And time future contained in time past.
  
 
  
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
  
 
  
All time is unredeemable.
  
 
  
Footfalls echo in the memory
  

. . . shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
  
 
  
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
  
 
  
-----
  
 
  
To be a little philosophical, then, is quite in
place:
  
 
  
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
  
 
  
cf. 'My Past' by Marie Larisch
  
 
  
  "Count Larisch did not give us much of his company in Bavaria, as he
  had a deep-rooted dislike to my country, and to my family; so his
  visits to the Villa Valerie only lasted a few weeks. But I was not
  actually unhappy; I loved my children; I had many things to occupy my
  time, and perhaps a little of the stolid Bavarian character made
  
 me philosophical. I had, like most women, some one for whom I cared,
  
  but this was my own secret, and the object of my affection knew nothing
  about it. I drifted
peacefully through the days which were so much
  alike..."
  
 
  
-----
  
 
  
A possible/probable "higher" meaning to freedom:
  
 
  
//among the mountains, there you feel free.//
  
 
  
// We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf //
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before            [FQ]
  
 
  
 
  
A (possible/probable) mystic dimension to the moment:
  
 
  
At the still point of the turning world. Neither
flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is
,
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.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The
resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body...
  
 
  
Even though:
  
 
  
. . . to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime's death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
   
  
 
  
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