Well observed, Peter. I appreciate and admire this openness of mind
vis-a-vis our engagement with literature.


From: Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]>;
To: <[log in to unmask]>;
Subject: Re: OT - Chapel Perilous
Sent: Fri, May 4, 2012 1:15:08 AM

Things evolve, change, do not remain the same,
even literary criticism. For me o.c. is not cast in stone or cement or
any other supposedly solid substance. If, like the tombstone maker,
we take our work for granite, we are likely to be surprised.
The so-called formula is for me evidence of Eliot's dramatic cast of imagination.
It is in process rather than in stasis. An experience like a magnet picks up things
as it moves a long, and then melds those things as it reflects. The play moves
along and expresses its emotional experiences in sequence rather than
encapsulating them in simple terms.
----- Original Message -----
From: [log in to unmask]" ymailto="mailto:[log in to unmask]" target="_blank" href="javascript:return">Chokh Raj
To: [log in to unmask]" ymailto="mailto:[log in to unmask]" target="_blank" href="javascript:return">[log in to unmask]
Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2012 12:02 PM
Subject: Re: OT - Chapel Perilous

An interesting remark, Peter. It prompts me to raise a query.
In deciphering Eliot's poetry, are we bound by Eliot's notion of 'objective correlative'? 
IMHO, a reader is free to view Eliot's poetry in the light of what we generally mean by
objective correlative rather than be guided solely by Eliot's criterion of it. 


From: Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]>
To: [log in to unmask]
Sent: Wednesday, May 2, 2012 2:45 AM
Subject: Re: OT - Chapel Perilous 

Sounds to me like we're creeping closer and closer to the objective correlative.


----- Original Message ----- From: "Rickard Parker" <[log in to unmask]>

> Why, for all of us, out of all that we have heard, seen, felt, in a
> lifetime, do certain images recur, charged with emotion, rather than others?
> The song of one bird, the leap of one fish, at a particular place and time,
> the scent of one flower, an old woman on a German mountain path, six
> ruffians seen through an open window playing cards at night at a small
> French railway junction where there was a water-mill: such memories may have
> symbolic value, but of what we cannot tell, for they come to represent the
> depths of feeling into which we cannot peer. We might just as well ask why,
> when we try to recall visually some period in the past, we find in our
> memory just the few meagre arbitrarily chosen set of snapshots that we do
> find there, the faded poor souvenirs of passionate moments.
>                                                          TSE