December 28th, 2011

let it be written. i. am an ass.

faintly tinged rose water

he did not live, he observed life from a window, and too often was inclined to content himself with no more than what his friends told him they saw when they looked out of a window.... in the end the point is neither his artistry nor his seriousness, but his personality, and this was curious and charming and a trifle absurd.
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    it's probably me b/w have you seen me lately?
headshot

sortes eliotanae

(somewhat remarkably to me, having listened to the recording of eliot himself
reading this i can always hear his reading as i read along)







Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
  'My nerves are bad to-night.  Yes, bad.  Stay with me.
'Speak to me.  Why do you never speak.  Speak.
  'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking.  Think.'
  I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their
  'What it that noise?'
      The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now?  What is the wind doing?'
      Nothing again nothing. 
     'Do
'You know nothing?  Do you see nothing?  Do you remember
'Nothing?'
   I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
                But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag - 
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now?  What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so.  What shall we do tomorrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
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    baby, i can't sleep tonight
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