----- Original Message ----- 
  From: Chokh Raj 
  To: [log in to unmask] 
  Sent: Friday, May 18, 2012 5:46 AM
  Subject: Re: Gerontion: earth's tenant

        Takes a lot of humph, Peter, to pass through this and much more 
        that in Eliot's poetry constitutes the dark night of the soul. Well, it 
        augurs well for the pilgrim in my view.

        "Here is a place of disaffection
        Time before and time after
        In a dim light: neither daylight
        Investing form with lucid stillness
        Turning shadow into transient beauty
        Wtih slow rotation suggesting permanence
        Nor darkness to purify the soul
        Emptying the sensual with deprivation
        Cleansing affection from the temporal.
        Neither plentitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
        Over the strained time-ridden faces
        Distracted from distraction by distraction
        Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
        Tumid apathy with no concentration
        Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
        That blows before and after time,
        Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
        Time before and time after.
        Eructation of unhealthy souls
        Into the faded air, the torpid
        Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
        Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
        Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
        Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

              Descend lower, descend only
        Into the world of perpetual solitude,
        World not world, but that which is not world,
        Internal darkness, deprivation
        And destitution of all property,
        Dessication of the world of sense,
        Evacuation of the world of fancy,
        Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
        This is the one way, and the other
        Is the same, not in movement
        But abstention from movememnt; while the world moves
        In appetency, on its metalled ways
        Of time past and time future."
        ('Burnt Norton')


        "I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
        Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
        The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
        With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
        And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
        And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away-
        Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
        And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
        And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
        Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
        Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing-
        I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
        For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
        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.
        Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
        So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
        ('East Coker')

        So, if one views Eliot's poetry retrospectively, everything falls into place
        in a larger perspective that underscores an overall unity of thought.


  From: Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]>; 
  To: <[log in to unmask]>; 
  Subject: Re: Gerontion: earth's tenant 
  Sent: Fri, May 18, 2012 2:38:45 AM 

        Takes a bit of umph to wrap one's mind around that thought.

          ----- Original Message ----- 
          From: Chokh Raj 
          To: [log in to unmask] 
          Sent: Thursday, May 17, 2012 5:44 AM
          Subject: Gerontion: earth's tenant

          Today's Quotation at

          "Yes; but if not of the earth, for earth's tenant Jerusalem was the omphalos of mortality."
           (Thomas De Quincey, 'Suspiria de Profundies') 


          "Thou hast nor youth nor age

           But as it were an after dinner sleep
           Dreaming of both." 

                             "Tenants of the house, 
           Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season." 

                                                                     "Think at last 
          We have not reached conclusion, when I 
          Stiffen in a rented house." 


          Jules Laforgue: "And thou, Silence, pardon the earth; 
          the little madcap hardly knows what she is doing."
          (Lyndall Gordon, 'Eliot's Early Years', p. 35) 


          Poetry has many voices.