November/December – Brideshead & Beyond: The Genius of Evelyn Waugh
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“Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.”
— Ash-Wednesday, I
I discovered the poetry of T. S. Eliot at the age of thirteen, a skinny kid in small town Montana who had, for some strange reason, a love of poetry, the novels of Dickens, the music of Mozart, and the art of Andrew Wyeth. All of these are an inter-mingled mystery, even in hindsight, and I suppose they really remain so, as the attraction of great literature and art is a mystery bound to The Mystery. I’m quite certain that my first Eliot poems were The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and The Hollow Men—the former darkly exotic (“the yellow smoke that slides along the streets”) and the latter oddly apocalyptic (“This is the dead land”).