Thomas Stearns Eliot

Thomas Stearns Eliot Born; 26 September 1888 St. Louis, Missouri, United States Died; 4 January 1965 (aged 76) London, England Occupation; Poet, Dramatist, Literary critic Nationality; Born in America but became a British Subject in 1927 Awards; Nobel Prize in Literature 1948 Jessica Sequin

Early years Thomas grew up in St. Louis Missouri with his father, Henry Ware Eliot who was a successful business man, president and treasurer of the Hydraulic-Press Brick Company in St. Louis. His mother, Charlotte Champe Stearns wrote poems and was a social worker. Eliot was the last of 6 surviving children. His parents were both 44 when they had him. His sisters were between 11 and 19 years older then him and his brother was 8 years older. Tom was named after his grandfather Thomas Stearns.

From 1898 to 1905, Tom went to Smith Academy, a preparatory school for Washington University. He studied Latin, Greek, French and German. After this he could have gone to Harvard but instead his parents sent him to the Milton Academy for another prep year. Then from 1906-1909 he went to Harvard where he got a B.A. degree. There he met a few friends such as Laforgue, Rimbaud, and Verlaine who published a few of his poems. He then in 1910-1911 lived in Paris studying at Sorbonne and touring the continent.

After this he returned to Harvard and studied in writing and was given a scholarship for Merton College in Oxford. He went to visit Germany before settling down except WWI broke out so he went straight to Oxford where there he met Vivienne Haigh-Wood. He didn’t like Merton so in 1915 he declined Merton College and married Vivienne. He stayed in London with his wife and had a few teaching careers.

His marriage was not a happy one. People believed that Vivienne having an affair with their landlord, Bertrand. Marriage brought no happiness to Vivienne and for Tom it was only a reason for him to stay in London. The only reason that is said that Tom married Vivienne was because he was still a virgin at 27 and needed “action”. This marriage was the cause of one of his good poems “The Waste Land.” After being a school teacher he went to Paris to meet an old friend when he came across a man named Joyce which he didn’t like at first because Joyce found that Tom had no talent in poetry. Later on they became friends. He later on went to the publishing firm Faber and Faber and became director of the firm.

In 1927 Tom turned for Anglicanism and became a British Subject. He wrote his book For Lancelot Andrewes. In 1932 his was offered a job at Harvard as a professor. When returning to London in 1933 he separated with his wife which was committed in a mental-hospital and died in 1947. John Davy Hayward, was the one who kept Tom’s archives and papers. He was to take care of Tom’s poems and publish them.

Tom’s second marriage was happy but short. In 1957 he married Esmé Valerie Fletcher. He knew her pretty well since she was the secretary of Faber and Faber for many years. His new wife was 37 years younger then him and after Tom’s death she kept his legacy alive as she edited and annotated The Letters of T. S. Eliot.

Tom died of emphysema in London on January 4, 1965. This is a type of lung disease which he got because of the air in London and his heavy smocking. On the second year anniversary of his death a large stone placed on the floor of Poets' Corner in London's Westminster Abbey was dedicated to Eliot.

An analysis of 3 poems by : TS Eliot Alex van der Mout

Poem # 1:MORNING AT THE WINDOW They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens, And along the trampled edges of the street I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates. The brown waves of fog toss up to me Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts An aimless smile that hovers in the air And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

MORNING AT THE WINDOW History: T.S Eliot composed Morning at the Window in early September 1914, (as World War I was breaking out). At the time he was living in England and working for The Egoist (English newspaper). Using an non-rhyming form he created an interesting and Entertaining group of images.

MORNING AT THE WINDOW With his disconnected pedestrian voice, Eliot has gone about collecting grimy, mucky images of brown waves of fog and muddy skirts on an urban morning. In the midst of a bit of moral dirt swirling among the clashes of modern noise. This is the disorder of different social classes coming together; the city being the place where members of various social strata come together most visibly. It is a modern kind of music, a type of revolutionary music created from the sounds, sights, and smells of their respective urban realities. He separates with his gate the classes with his usual sophisticated weariness ‘I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates’

MORNING AT THE WINDOW Personal Reflection After reading ‘Morning at the Window’, I get the feeling that Eliot is very social-class originated. Also that he sees the turmoil that the first world war has on England, and that it bemuses him, and angers him, to see all working together. From this one poem, any reader could see that Eliot is a very negative person, dwelling on the darker side of things.

Poem # 2:Cousin Nancy Miss Nancy EllicottStrode across the hills and broke them,Rode across the hills and broke them—The barren New England hills—Riding to houndsOver the cow-pasture.Miss Nancy Ellicott smokedAnd danced all the modern dances;And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,But they knew that it was modern.Upon the glazen shelves kept watchMatthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,The army of unalterable law

Cousin Nancy This poem demonstrates the view of others, on those who embrace the ‘modern’ way. " And her aunts were not quite sure what they felt about it" This short poem encompasses the duality, and the uncertainty that accompanies modernity. On the one hand, there is no such thing as 'modern'. There is only the next chapter in a book that is being forever being written. The only sense in which it is 'modern' is by the name attached to it. "...and danced all the modern dances .... but they knew that it was modern". Repetition of this word emphasizes its role as 'label'

Cousin Nancy Miss Nancy Ellicott, through her ways, shattered the existing ways that were be maintained. Wherever she went she ‘forced’ change to happen. The ‘old’ hills were brought to ruin, and later made modern. Miss Nancy EllicottStrode across the hills and broke them,Rode across the hills and broke them—The barren New England hills— Not the hills of an land inhabited of old, but “The barren New England hills.” The founding of a ‘new’ England that has not had time to accumulate the rich cultural tapestry of its namesake. The obligation of ‘modernity’ on a landscape that is a relatively blank slate, ‘barren’ suggests that this modernity in this context is merely ‘another chapter’ in a developing world.

Cousin Nancy Miss Nancy Ellicott smokedAnd danced all the modern dances;And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,But they knew that it was modern. Nancy indulged in all the modern things. (Smoking, dancing , etc) Upon the glazen shelves kept watchMatthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,The army of unalterable law Relating to ‘change’, the populace or her ‘aunts’ saw that something was happening, but were unsure how to deal with a changing world. (Remember that this poem was written at the beginning of the first world war.) In essence change must happen. It is the law of the universe – that cannot be hindered or changed in any way.

Poem # 3:The Hollow Men Mistah Kurtz—he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed stavesIn a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer— Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man’s hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death’s other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless,unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death’s twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o’clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Man Mistah Kurtz—he dead. A penny for the Old Guy The two pre-cursors to the poem, "Mistah Kurtz - he dead" and "A penny for the Old Guy", are relating to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and to Guy Fawkes, attempted arsonist of the English house of Parliament, and his straw-man effigy that is burned each year in England on Bonfire Night.

The Hollow Man Interesting Facts . . . There are various other allusions to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, The Bible, and other works by the author. But none of these is critical to appreciation of this poem. This poem is a model of the use of "literary tradition" to make an entirely new landscape as the stage of an ancient conflict. T. S. Eliot himself was a critic and had a much stricter definition of "literary tradition" than did most of his contemporaries.

The Hollow Man This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. This, the final stanza, may be the most quoted of all of Eliot's poetry. May allude to, amongst some talk of war, the actual end of the Gunpowder Plot mentioned at the beginning: not with its planned explosive bang, but with Guy Fawkes's whimper, as he was caught, tortured and executed on the gallows. Interesting Fact . . . Some critics, have also pointed out a note of hope in that a 'whimper' could be interpreted as the sound of a new-born. As a new beginning, a fresh start for the hallow man. The end of analyzing.

An Anthology of 3 poems byT.s. eliot Justin aitchison

At mating time the hippo's voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God. The hippopotamus's day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way-- The Church can sleep and feed at once. I saw the 'potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas. Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold. He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr'd virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. The hippopotamus The broad-backed hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood. Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock. The hippo's feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends. The 'potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea.

The love song of J. alfred Prufrock, pt 1.1 Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

pt 1.2 And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- (They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!") Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

pt 1.3 For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

part 2.1 And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"-- If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: "That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all."

Pt 2.2 And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.“ No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool.

Pt 2.3 I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Rhapsody on a windy Night Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, "Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin." The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Rhapsody on a windy night, cont’d Half-past two, The street lamp said, "Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter." So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child's eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark.

Rhapsody on a windy night The lamp hummed: "Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain." The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars." The lamp said, "Four o'clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life." The last twist of the knife.

Thomas Stearns Eliot