[ELIOT, T.S.] the four quartets - [PDF document] (2023)

  • 10/31/13 Four quartets by T.S. eliot

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    Poems by TS Eliot

    the four quatrains

    norton burnt


    present and past

    Are they both perhaps present in the future tense?

    And the time of the future contained in the past.

    When all time is eternally present, all time is irredeemable.

    What might have been is an abstraction

    Stay in an eternal possibility

    Alone in a world of speculation.

    What could have been and what has been point to an end that is always there.

    Footsteps echo in memory

    Down the hall we didn't take

    To the door we never open

    In the rose garden. So my words resonate in your head. but for what purpose

    Raising dust in a bowl of rose petals, I don't know.

    other echoes

    inhabit the garden Shall we continue?

    Quick, said the bird, find her, find her

    Just around the corner. through the first gate

    In our first world, we will continue

    The blue bird hoax? In our first world.

    There they were, dignified, invisible,

    moving without pressure, on the dead leaves,

    In the heat of autumn, through the vibrant air,

    And the bird screamed in response to the unheard music hidden in the bushes,

    And the invisible beam crossed the roses

    It had the appearance of flowers looking at each other.

    There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

    So we moved in and she, in a formal pattern,

    Along the empty lane, in the circle of the box,

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    Looking down on the drained pool.

    dry pool, dry concrete, outlined in brown,

    And the pool filled with water from the sunlight

    And the lotus rose gently, gently,

    The surface glowed from the heart of light,

    And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.

    Then a cloud passed by and the pool was empty.

    Come on, said the bird, the leaves were full of children,

    Hiding excitedly, holding back laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human species

    I can't accept much reality.

    Past tense and future tense

    What could have been and what was

    Point to an ending that is always present.


    Garlic and sapphires in the mud cover the bedded axis tree.

    The taut wire in the blood sings beneath ingrained scars

    Appeasement of wars long forgotten. The dance along the artery. The lymphatic cycle

    They are shown in the drift of the stars. Climb the tree for summer.

    We move above the moving tree in the light of the illustrated leaf.

    And hear the hound of the boar and the boar on the sodden ground below

    Trace your pattern as before but reconciled under the stars.

    At the still point of the revolving world. Neither with meat nor without meat;

    Neither since nor after; at the point of stillness, there is dance, but neither stillness nor movement. And don't call it permanence Where the past and the future meet. No movement north up,

    Neither up nor down. Except for the point, the immobile point, there would be no dance and there is only the dance.

    All I can say is that's where we were, but I can't say where. And I can't say how long, because that's putting it in time.

    Inner liberation from practical desires, liberation from action and suffering, liberation from within

    And the outer compulsion, still surrounded by the grace of the senses, a still and moving white light,

    Elevation without movement, concentration without elimination, both a new world and the old one made explicit, understood

    At the culmination of his partial ecstasy,

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    The resolution of his partial terror. But the concatenation of past and future

    Woven into the weakness of the shifting body, it protects humanity from heaven and damnation.

    What meat can't stand. Past tense and future tense

    Allow just a little awareness. Being aware does not mean being in time, but only in time can the moment in the rose garden

    The moment in the gazebo when the rain fell, The moment in the drafty church when smoke fell

    to be remembered; worried about the past and the future.

    Only through time will time be conquered.


    Here is a place of dissatisfaction.

    Time before and time after Low light: no daylight

    Reversing the form with clear stillness Transforming shadows into ephemeral beauty

    With slow rotation suggesting permanence or darkness to purify the soul

    Emptying the sensual with deprivation, purifying the affection of the temporary.

    Neither abundance nor vacancy. Just a blink over tense, time-scarred faces, Distracted by distraction by distraction

    Full of fantasies and meaningless, numb unfocused apathy Men and pieces of paper spun in the cold wind

    That blows before and after time

    Wind in and out of unhealthy lungs

    time before and time after. regurgitation of sick souls

    In the colorless, frozen air

    Driven by the wind that sweeps across the desolate hills of London, Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,

    Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here

    Not here the darkness, in this creaking world.

    Descend lower, only descent

    In the world of eternal loneliness

    World not world, but what is not world,

    Inner darkness, deprivation and deprivation of all property,

    dried up from the world of the senses,

    fantasy world evacuation

    ineffectiveness of the spirit world;

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    That's one way and the other

    It's the same, it doesn't move

    But abstinence of movement; while the world moves in its metal ways in anorexia

    Of the past tense and of the future tense.


    Time and the bell buried the day

    the black cloud carries away the sun. If the sunflower will come to us, will the clematis?

    Lose yourself, bend towards us; tendril and spray

    grab and hold on?

    ChillFingers of Yew are curled

    down on us? Following the kingfisher's wing

    Light light has answered and is silent, the light continues

    At the immobile point of the world that turns.


    Words move, music only moves in time; but what only lives

    can only die Words, after speech, reach

    in silence Only through the form, the pattern, can words or music arrive.

    The stillness, like a Chinese alembic

    It moves incessantly in its stillness.

    Not the silence of the violin while the sound lasts, not only that, but coexistence,

    Or say that the end precedes the beginning,

    And the end and the beginning were always there

    Before the beginning and after the end. And everything is always now. the words weigh

    Cracking and sometimes breaking under load.

    Under stress slip, slip, perish, not stand still. voices screaming

    Scolding, teasing or just gossiping,

    Always attack her. The word in the desert

    The majority attacked by voices of temptation, the shadow that cries in mourning dance,

    (Video) A Reader's Guide to T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets"

    The loud lament of the desolate chimera.

    The detail of the pattern is movement, as in the figure of the ten flights of stairs.

    Desire itself is movement.

    Not desirable in itself;

    Love itself is immobile, the only cause and end of movement,

    timeless and unwanted

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    Except in the aspect of time Trapped in the form of limitation

    Between not being and being.

    suddenly in a ray of sunshine

    Even when the dust moves, the hidden laughter rises

    Of children in the leaves

    Quick now, here, now, always-

    Ridiculous the sad stretch of time wasted before and after.

    east cockerel


    In my beginning is my end. after another

    Houses rise and fall, collapse, expand,

    removed, destroyed, restored or replaced

    It is an open field or a factory or a ring road. Old stone to new construction, old wood to new fires,

    Old fires to ashes and ashes to the ground

    That's meat, hides and droppings, human and animal bones, stalks and leaves of corn.

    Houses live and die: there is a time to build

    And a time for living and for generation

    And a time for the wind to break the glass loose, and shake the coffered ceiling where the field mouse trots.

    And shake the broken arras woven with a silent motto.

    In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls on the open field, leaving the alley deep

    Closed with branches, dark in the afternoon,

    Where you lean on a bench while a van goes by

    And the deep alley insists on the direction To the town, in the electric heat

    hypnotized. In a warm haze the sensual light

    Absorbed by Gray Stone, not broken. The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.

    Wait for the early owl.

    In this open field if you don't get too close, if you don't get too close

    On a summer night you can hear the music

    Of the feeble fife and the box

    And see them dancing around the bonfire, the union of male and female

    In daunsinge it means marriage

    A dignified and comfortable sacrament.

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    Two and two, necessary connection,

    Holding others by the hand or arm.

    which portends concord. Around and around the fire, jumping through the flames or joining in a circle,

    Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter

    lift heavy feet in clumsy shoes,

    Feet of earth, feet of clay, raised in greed for the earth, joy of those who are long under the earth

    Feed the corn. keep time

    Keep the rhythm while you dance.

    As in his life in the living seasons

    The time of the seasons and the constellations

    The time of milking and the time of the harvestThe time of the mating of the male and the female

    And the one of the beasts. Feet go up and down.

    To eat and drink. shit and death

    Twilight points and another day

    Prepare for the heat and stillness. In the sea the morning wind

    wrinkles and slips. I am here or there or in another place. in my beginning


    How is the end of November?

    With the interruption of spring

    And creatures of the summer heat

    And bluebells that twist underfoot and hollyhocks that aim too high

    Red in gray and crumble

    Late roses full of early snow?

    Thunder rolled from the rolling stars

    Simulate triumph cars

    Use in constellation wars

    Scorpion fights against the sun until the sun and the moon go down

    Comets cry and Leonids fly

    Chase the sky and planes

    Swirled in a whirlpool destined to bring

    The world to this destructive fire

    What burns before the ice cap rules.

    One could put it that way, not very satisfactorily: aperiprastic study in a well-worn poetic way,

    What remains is the unbearable struggle

    With words and meanings. Poetry doesn't matter.

    It was not (starting over) what was expected.

    What should be the value of the long-awaited,

    The long-awaited calm, the autumnal serenity

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    And the wisdom of old age? Did they fool us?

    Or they fooled themselves, the elders quietly,

    Just leave us a receipt for fraud?

    Serenity is just a voluntary push,

    Wisdom is only the knowledge of dead secrets.

    Useless in the darkness in which they peered

    Or the one they looked away from. There seems to be limited value at best

    With knowledge of experience.

    Knowledge sets a pattern and falsifies,

    Because the pattern is new every moment.

    And every moment is new and shocking

    Evaluation of everything we went. they just don't fool us

    Which deceptively couldn't do more damage.

    In the middle, not just in the middle of the road, but all the way, in a dark forest, in a thicket,

    On the edge of a grimp where there is no secure footing,

    And threatened by monsters, lights out,

    risk charm. don't let me hear you

    of the wisdom of the old, but rather of their folly,

    His fear of fear and frenzy, his fear of possession,

    Belonging to another or to others or to God. The only wisdom we can hope for

    It is the wisdom of humility: humility is infinite.

    All the houses have disappeared under the sea.

    All the dancers have disappeared under the hill.


    Oh dark dark dark. everyone goes in the dark

    The empty interstellar spaces, the void in the void,

    Captains, commercial bankers, important writers,

    The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and rulers,

    Distinguished officials, chairmen of many committees,

    Industrialists and small business owners are left in the dark

    And darken the sun and the moon, and the Almanac de Gotha, and the stock market newspaper, the list of directors,

    And the sense cooled and lost the reason for action.

    And we all go with them to the silent funeral

    No one is buried because there is no one to bury.

    I told my soul to be still and let the darkness take over you

    Which will be the darkness of God. like in a theater

    The lights go out so that the scene changes, with a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness in the darkness,

    And we know that the hills and the trees are the distant view

    And the bold and imposing facades are all set aside -

    Or like when a subway train stops too long between stations.

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    And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence

    And behind each face one sees the mental emptiness deepen, leaving only the growing fear of not thinking;

    (Video) Alec Guinness reads Four Quartets by TS Eliot

    Or if the spirit below the ether is conscious but not aware of anything—

    I told my soul stay still and hopelessly wait

    Because hope would be hope of falsehood; wait without love

    Because love would be the love of the wrong thing; there is still faith

    But faith, love and hope are waiting.

    Wait without thinking, because you are not ready to think:

    Thus the darkness will be the light and the silence the dance. Whispers of flowing streams and winter lightning.

    The invisible wild thyme and the wild strawberry,

    Laughter in the garden echoed with ecstasy

    Not lost, but demanding, signaling torment.

    Of death and birth.

    They say I'm repeating something I said before. I'll say it again.

    Do you want me to say it again? to get there

    To get where you are, to get away from where you are not,

    You must walk a path where there is no ecstasy.

    To get to what you don't know

    You must walk a path, which is the path of ignorance.

    To possess what you do not possess, you must take the path of expropriation.

    To reach what you are not

    You must walk the path you are not on.

    And what you don't know is all you know

    And what you own, you don't own

    And where you are, you are not.


    The wounded surgeon bends the steel

    That calls into question the faded part;

    Under bleeding hands we feel

    The sharp compassion of the healing arts

    Solve the mystery of the fever curve.

    Our only health is sickness if we obey the dying nurse

    Whose constant care is not to please

    But to remind us of our curse and Adam's,

    And that to be restored, our disease must worsen.

    The whole earth is our hospital

    Donated by the broke millionaire, though if we get it right we will.

    Dying of absolute parental care

    This does not let us go, but hinders us everywhere.

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    The cold rises from the feet to the knees,

    The fever sings in mental threads.

    If you want to be warm, then I have to freeze.

    And tremble in the cold fires of purgatory whose flame burns and the smoke is thorn.

    The blood that drips our only drink

    The bloody meat our only sustenance:

    Still, we like to think

    That we are healthy, of substantial flesh and blood—

    However, we call this Friday good again.


    So here I am, in the middle, after being twenty years old -

    Twenty largely wasted years, the years of l'entre deuxguerres-

    Trying to use words, and every attempt

    It's a whole new start and a different kind of failure

    Because one has only learned to take possession of the words for what one no longer needs to say, or the way in which

    One no longer feels inclined to say it. And so every risk

    It's a new beginning, a foray into the inarticulate,

    With shoddy equipment that keeps getting worse

    In the general confusion of the inaccuracy of feelings,

    Undisciplined emotions. And what is there to conquer

    Through force and submission, he's already been discovered a time or two or more by men beyond all hope.

    Imitate - but there is no competition -

    The only thing left is the fight to recover what was lost

    And found and lost again and again: and now subconditions

    That seems inauspicious. But maybe neither profit nor loss.

    For us there is only try. The rest is none of our business.

    Home is where you start. when we are older

    The world gets stranger, the patterns more complicated

    Of dead and alive. It is not the intense moment

    Isolated, without before and after,

    But a life that burns every moment

    And not the life of a single man, but of ancient stones that cannot be deciphered.

    There's a time for the night under the starlight

    A time for the night by lamplight

    (The evening with the photo album).

    Most likely, love is himself.

    When the here and now no longer matters.

    The old ones should be explorers.

    Here or there doesn't matter

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    We must be still and move

    in a different intensity

    For a greater union, a deeper communion

    Through the dark cold and empty desolation,

    The cry of the waves, the cry of the wind, the vast waters

    Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

    The Dry Salvages

    (The Dry Salvages - presumably los tres salvajes - is small

    Set of rocks, with beacon, facing N.E. cape Ann Coast,

    Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with assuages.

    Groaner: a whistling buoy.)


    I don't know much about gods; but i think the river

    He is a strong brown god, surly, untamed and ungovernable,

    Up to a certain point patient, initially recognized as a limit;

    Useful, unreliable, as a promoter of trade;

    The only problem facing the bridge builder.

    Once the problem is resolved, the townspeople almost forget the brown god, but always firmly.

    Preserves its seasons and its fury, destroyer, admonisher

    What men prefer to forget. Without honoring, without appeasing

    Of fans of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.

    His rhythm was present in the children's room,

    in the rancid breath of the April patio,

    In the aroma of grapes on the autumnal table and in the evening circle in the winter gas light.

    The river is within us, the sea surrounds us;

    The sea is also the edge of the earth, granite,

    To which it arrives, the beaches where it throws

    His references to previous creations and others:

    The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the backbone of the whale; the pools in which our curiosity offers

    The most delicate algae and the sea anemone.

    Elevate our losses, the torn calf,

    The broken lobster pot, the broken oar

    And the foreign dead team. The sea has many voices.

    Many gods and many voices.

    The salt is in the dog rose,

    The fog lies in the fir trees. the sea howls

    And the howls of the sea are different voices

    They are often heard together: the howl on the rig,

    The threat and the caress of a wave breaking in the water,

    The distant routine in the granite teeth,

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    And the warning howl from the approaching promontory

    They are all the voices of the sea and the growing groans rounded off by the house and the seagull:

    And under the pressure of the silent fog

    the bell ringing

    (Video) T S Eliot reads his Four Quartets

    Measure time, not our time, sounded by the welcoming

    speed bump, a time

    Older than the time of chronometers, older

    As time was counted by anxious and worried women who lay awake calculating the future

    Trying to unravel, unravel, unravel

    And put the past and the future together

    Between midnight and dawn when the past is just an illusion

    The future without a future, before the morning watch

    Where time stands still and time never ends;

    And the speed bump, which is and was from the beginning, sounds

    The bell.


    Where does the silent lament end,

    The silent withering of autumn flowers, dropping their petals and remaining motionless;

    Where is there and at the end of the drifting debris, the prayer of the bone on the beach, the unpronounceable

    Prayer before the fatal announcement?

    There is no end, but addition: the subsequent succession of more days and hours,

    As emotion consumes the emotionless years of life below the fracture

    Of what was believed to be the most reliable and therefore the most suitable for resignation.

    There is the final complement, failure.

    Pride or resentment at waning powers, the untethered devotion that could pass as devotion,

    In a drifting boat with a slow leak, quietly listening to the undeniable

    Ringing of the Bell of the Last Annunciation.

    Where is the end of them, the fishermen who sail on the tail of the wind where the mists crouch?

    We cannot imagine a time without an ocean, or an ocean that is not full of debris.

    Or of a future that is not, like the past, destined to have no purpose.

    We have to imagine that they leave forever,

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    Lay down and tow as the North East dips

    Through shallow, immutable and uneroded shorelines, or drawing money, drying sails on the pier;

    Not for a ride that's priceless, for a ride that won't hold up to scrutiny.

    There is no end, the crying without a voice, there is no end to the withering of withered flowers, the movement of pain that is painless and immobile,

    To the sea current and drifting debris, The Bone Pulverizer to the Death of his god. Only what you can hardly, hardly pray for

    single ad sentence.

    Seems like as you get older

    That the past has a different pattern and ceases to be a mere succession -or even a development: the latter a partial error encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,

    What popularly becomes a means to deny the past. The moments of happiness - not the feeling of well-being,

    Fruit, fulfillment, security or affection, or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination

    We had the experience but lost the meaning, and approaching the meaning recreates the experience in a different way, beyond any meaning.

    We can assign luck. I have already said that past experience has been relived in a sense

    It is not the experience of a single life, but of many generations - not to forget

    Something that is probably quite indescribable: looking back behind the certainty of recorded history, looking back

    Over the shoulder, towards the primitive horror. Now we discover that moments of agony

    (Whether due to a misunderstanding, expecting the wrong thing, or fearing the wrong thing,

    out of the question) also endure as permanently as time has. We better appreciate that, in the agony of others, almost more experienced,

    Embracing ourselves than ours. Because our own past is covered by the currents of action,

    But the torment of others remains an experience, unqualified, without the support of further wear.

    People change and smile: but the torment remains. The time of the destroyer is the time of the guardian, like the river with its load of dead blacks, cows and chicken coops,

    The bitter apple and the bite in the apple. And the jagged rock in the troubled waters

    the waves bathe it, the mists hide it; On a happy day it's just a monument

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    In navigable weather it is always a navigable mark to set a course, but in gloomy season or sudden anger it always is.


    Sometimes I wonder if that is what Krishna meant.

    Among other things - or put another way: That the future is a withered song, a real rose or a spray of lavender

    Of melancholic regret for those who are not yet here to repent, among the yellow pages of a book that has never been opened. And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.

    You can't face it firmly, but this thing is sure that time does not heal: the patient is gone.

    When the train leaves, the passengers are left with fruit, magazines and business letters.

    (And those who said goodbye to them have left the platform) Their faces relax from sadness to relief, to the sleepy rhythm of the hundred hours.

    Forward, travelers! not flee from the past towards other lives or towards any future;

    They are not the same people who left this station or will arrive at any terminal station,

    As the narrowing rails slide together behind you; As you watch the furrow widen behind you, don't think "the past is over."

    Or "the future is ahead of us." At nightfall, on the rig and the antenna,

    is a voice decanting

    “Go ahead, you think you are traveling; You are not the ones who saw the port recede, nor the ones who will disembark.

    Here between this world and the hereafter While time has passed, contemplate the future

    And the past with the same mind. At the moment it is not about doing or not doing anything

    You can receive this: "Any realm of being that a person's mind may have at the time of death" - that is an action

    (And the time of death is every moment) destined to bear fruit in the lives of others:

    And do not think about the fruit of action, move on.

    O travelers, O sailors, you who have reached the port and you whose bodies

    It will suffer the test and the judgment of the sea or whatever, that is your true goal.” So Krishna as if he had invoked Arjuna with his head.

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    On the battlefield. not going well,

    But go ahead, travelers.


    lady whose sanctuary is on the promontory,

    Pray for all those on boats whose business involves fish and

    Those who deal with any lawful act and those who practice them.

    Also repeat a prayer on behalf of

    Women who have seen their sons or husbands leave and have not returned:

    daughter of your son, queen of heaven.

    Pray also for those who were in the ships and ended their journey in the sand, on the lips of the sea, or in the dark throat that will not reject them.

    Or where the sound of the Perpetual Angelus of the Marine Bell does not reach them.


    Communicate with Mars, converse with the spirits,

    To report behavior of sea monsters, describe horoscope, haruspex or recognize, observe diseases in signatures, induce

    Biography from the folds of the palm And tragedy from the fingers; unleash omens

    Break the inevitable through sorting or tea leaves, play with cards, play with staves

    Or barbituric acids, or dissect the recurring image into preconscious horrors, to explore the womb, the grave, or dreams; all these are common

    Hobbies and Drugs and Newspaper Articles: And they always will be, some of them special

    Whether on the shores of Asia or on the Edgware Road, men's curiosity seeks the past and the future.

    And it clings to this dimension. But understanding the intersection of the timeless with time is a concern for the saint.

    Neither a profession, but something given and given, in the death of life in love,

    Enthusiasm and selflessness and delivery. For most of us, there is only the neglected

    Moment, the moment in and out of time, distraction wedged in, lost in a ray of sunshine

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    The wild thyme that is invisible, or the winter lightning, or the waterfall, or the music that is heard so deeply

    Which cannot be heard at all, but you are the music as long as the music lasts. These are just hints and guesses,

    clues followed by guesses; and the rest is prayer, obedience, discipline, thought and action.

    The half-guessed key, the half-understood gift, is the incarnation. Here is the impossible union of test spheres indeed,

    Here past and future are conquered and reconciled,

    Where action would otherwise be motion-only motion

    And he does not have a source of movement within himself, driven by demonic and chthonic forces. And the right action is freedom.

    Also past and future. For most of us, this is the goal.

    Never here to be fulfilled; they are undefeated

    Because we keep trying; We are content at last when our temporal investment nourishes

    (Not far from yew) Significant soil life.

    klein hanging around


    Winter solstice spring is its own season

    Floating in time, between the poles and the tropics. When the short day is at its brightest, with frost and fire,

    The brief sun shines on the ice, in ponds and ditches, In a cold without wind, that is the warmth of the heart, Reflected in a watery mirror.

    A glare that is blindness in the early hours of the afternoon.

    The mute spirit stirs: there is no wind, but Pentecostal fire In the dark season. Between melting and freezing

    The juice of the soul trembles. There is no smell of earth or smell of living beings. This is spring, but not in the weather league. now the hedge

    Will whiten for an hour with transient snow bloom, more sudden bloom

    Like summer, it neither sprouts nor withers, not in the generation scheme.

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    Where is the summer, the unimaginable?

    Zero summer?

    (Video) T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" documentary (1987)

    If you were to come this way, take the route you'd probably take

    Where would you probably come from, if you came here in May you would find the hedges

    White again, in May, with exuberant sweetness. It would be the same at the end of the journey if you came at night like a broken king,

    If you came during the day and didn't know why you came, it would be the same when you get off the bumpy road.

    And turn behind the pigsty towards the boring facade and the tombstone. And what you thought you came for

    It is just a shell, a shell of meaning, from which the purpose is only broken when it is fulfilled, if it is fulfilled at all. Or you had no purpose

    Or the purpose goes beyond the end you envisioned and is a modified fulfillment. there are other places

    That they are also the end of the world, some in the marine pines, or on a dark lake, in a desert or in a city

    But this is next, place and time, now and in England.

    if you came this way

    Take any route, from anywhere, at any time and in any season,

    It would always be the same: sense and imagination would have to be postponed. You are not here to confirm

    Inform, inform curiosity or lead a relationship. They are here to kneel where the prayer was valid. And the prayer is more

    As a sequence of words, the conscious engagement of the praying mind, or the sound of the praying voice.

    And what the dead did not have language for when they were alive, they can tell you when they are dead: communication

    Fire speaks of the dead beyond the language of the living. Here the intersection of the timeless moment

    It's England and nowhere. Never and always.


    Ashes on an old man's sleeve

    They are all the ashes left by burned roses. dust floating in the air

    Mark the place where a story ended. The inhaled dust was a house - The walls, the panels and the mouse,

    The death of hope and despair,

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    This is the death of the air.

    There is flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand

    battle for advantage. the parched ground

    He gapes at the vanity of work, laughs without joy.

    This is the death of the earth.

    Water and fire follow the city, the grass and the weeds.

    Water and fire mock the sacrifice we have rejected.

    Water and fire will rot, broken foundations we forget

    Of the presbytery and choir. This is the death of water and fire.

    In the uncertain hour before morning

    Near the end of the endless night In the ending that returns from infinity

    After the dark dove with the flickering tongue had crossed the horizon of his home

    While the dead leaves still rattled like tin On the asphalt where there was no other sound, Between three neighborhoods where the smoke came from

    I came across one that walked, loitered, and ran as if it had been pulled at me like sheets of metal.

    Before the urban dawn, the wind does not resist. And as I look face down

    This pointed test, with which we challenge the primordial stranger in the fading twilight I caught the sudden glance of a dead master.

    whom he had known, forgotten, half remembered, both one and many; in the golden features

    The eyes of a familiar compound mind. Both intimate and unidentifiable.

    So I took on a dual role and called and heard someone else's voice yelling, "What! Are you here?" Although we were not. I was still the same

    I know I'm someone else after all and he's a face still in the making; but the words were enough

    To force the recognition they preceded. And so, pleasing the common wind,

    too strange to each other to be misunderstood, in unity at this moment of crossroads, with no place to meet, no before and after,

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    We got to the sidewalk in a dead patrol car.

    I said: "The miracle I feel is light, but lightness is the cause of the miracle. Therefore say:

    Maybe I don't understand, maybe I don't remember.« And he: »I don't feel like rehearsing

    My thoughts and theory you forgot. These things have served their purpose: leave them alone. So with yours, and pray that they are forgiven.

    From others as I ask you to forgive both the bad and the good. The fruits of the last season are eaten

    And the full animal will kick the empty bucket. Because last year's words belong to last year's language.

    And next year's words await another voice. But since the pass is now not an obstacle for the insatiable peregrine falcon

    Between two worlds they become so similar, so I find words I never thought I'd say

    On streets I never thought I'd visit again when I left my body on a distant shore.

    Since our concern was language, and language led us to purify the dialect of the tribe and urge the mind to patience and foresight,

    Allow me to reveal to you the gifts reserved for old age to crown your life's work.

    First the cold touch of dying sense, charmless, promiseless

    But the bitter taste of the shadow of the fruit When the body and soul begin to fall apart. Second, the conscious helplessness of anger.

    About human madness and the pain of laughter at what no longer entertains.

    And finally the heartbreaking pain of repeating everything you have done and been; the shame

    Of the things done badly and to the detriment of others, which in another time you took for the exercise of virtue. Then the approval of fools and deference triumph.

    From error to error, the angry mind continues unless it is restored by this refining fire.

    Where you have to move to the rhythm, like a dancer.” She woke up on the crooked street

    He left me with a sort of valedictory and faded away when the horn blew.


    There are three conditions that often look the same but are very different and will thrive in the same hedge:

    Attachment to oneself and to things and to people, detachment to oneself and to things and to people; and the indifference between them grows

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    Like the others, like death is like life, being between two lives, without a flower, between the living nettle and the dead nettle. This is the memory usage:

    For liberation - not less love, but to expand love beyond desire, and thus liberation

    Both from the future and from the past. This is how love for the homeland begins as a link with our own field of activity

    And he concludes that this act is of little importance, although he is never indifferent. History can be slavery, history can be freedom. See now they're gone

    Transfiguring the faces and places with the self I loved renewing in a different pattern.

    Sin is behovely, butAll will be good, and

    All kinds of things will be good. When I think back to this place and people who are not entirely recommendable,

    Of no immediate kinship or kindness, but of special genius,

    All touched by a common genius, united in the fight that divided them;

    When at nightfall I think of a king, three men and more, on the gallows and a few who died forgotten

    In other places, here and abroad, and by one who died blind and silent,

    Why should we celebrate these dead more than the dying?

    It is not meant to ring the bell backwards, nor is it an incantation to summon the ghost of a rose.

    We cannot revive old factions. We can't restore old policies

    Or follow an ancient drum. These men and those who opposed them

    And those they opposed accept the constitution of silence.

    And they unite in a single party. What we inherit from the lucky we have taken from the defeated

    What they had to leave us - a symbol: A symbol completed in death.

    And everything will be fine and everything will be fine

    Cleaning the reason basically our request.


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    The descending dove tears the air with a glow of white-hot terror

    of which tongues proclaim that they forsake sin and error. The only hope or despair.

    It is in the choice of the pyre - To be redeemed from fire by fire.

    So who invented agony? Love.Love is unknown name

    Behind the hands that weave The unbearable shirt of flames that human power cannot take off.

    We only live, we only suck, whether consumed by fire or by fire.


    What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make and the end means to make a beginning.

    The end is the starting point. And every sentence and every sentence that is true (where every word is at home,

    Taking his place to support others, The word neither shy nor flashy,

    A simple trade of the old and the new, the exact common word without vulgarity, the precise but not pedantic formal word,

    The complete wife dances together) Every sentence and every sentence is an end and a beginning,

    Each poem an epitaph. And each action is a step to the block, to the fire, to the throat of the sea

    Or to an unreadable stone: and that's where we start. We die with the dying: look, they leave, and we go with them.

    We are born with the dead: behold, they return and take us with them.

    The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew are of equal duration. A town without history

    Not redeemed by time, because history is a pattern of timeless moments. So as the lights go out on a winter evening in a secluded chapel

    The story is now and England.

    With the drawing of this love and the voice of this call

    We will not stop exploring and the end of all our explorations.

    We will arrive where we started and we will know the place for the first time. Through the unknown and unforgettable door

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    When the last of the earth that remained to be discovered is what was the beginning;

    At the source of the longest river, the voice of the hidden waterfall

    And the children in the apple tree You don't know, because you don't search, you listen, you listen halfway, in silence.

    Between two waves of the sea Fast now, here, now, always

    A state of complete simplicity (it costs nothing less than everything)

    And all will be well and all will be well when the tongues of fire unfurl

    In the knot crowned with fire And the fire and the rose are one.


What is the meaning of TS Eliot's Four Quartets? ›

The Four Quartets are poems about a nation and about a culture which is very severely under threat, and in a sense, you could describe The Four Quartets as a poem of memory, but not the memory of one individual but the memory of a whole civilization."

What are the Four Quartets of clarification of ethical issues and conflicts? ›

The Four Quartets' individual quartets, in the order of their composition as well as their placement in the sequence, are “Burnt Norton,” “East Coker,” “The Dry Salvages,” and “Little Gidding.” Read as if they were conceived and composed as the consecutive and interactive elements in a preconceived sequence to begin ...

What does in my beginning is my end and in my end is my beginning mean? ›

“In my end is my beginning,” T. S. Eliot wrote in Four Quartets. He meant something specific about circularity and the spiritual journey he was undertaking, but the line has more than one application, and I find it works to designate certain tactics or challenges that poets may employ to jump-start their imaginations.

What is the meaning of little gidding? ›

The title refers to a small Anglican community in Huntingdonshire, established by Nicholas Ferrar in the 17th century and scattered during the English Civil War. The poem uses the combined image of fire and Pentecostal fire to emphasise the need for purification and purgation.

What is the imagery and symbolism in Four Quartets? ›

The “Four Quartets” are full of nature imagery which functions to evoke a variety of emotions and memories in the reader. Images of gardens, flowers, rivers and seas, the earth, and the night sky combine to convey a sense of wonder: The presence of life in all of its natural forms is a marvel of grandeur.

What are the allusions in Four Quartets? ›

Critics have also pointed out allusions to the four elements in the four quartets, with Burnt Norton corresponding to air, East Coker to earth, The Dry Salvages to water, and Little Gidding to fire. Eliot concerns himself in all four segments with Modernist questions of time, purpose, meaning, and what can be known.

What are the 4 principles of moral Judgement? ›

The 4 main ethical principles, that is beneficence, nonmaleficence, autonomy, and justice, are defined and explained.

What are the four 4 basic rules of ethics? ›

The 4 basic ethical principles that apply to forensic activities are respect for autonomy, beneficence, nonmaleficence, and justice.

What are the 4 principles governing an ethical person? ›

Honesty. Integrity. Promise-Keeping & Trustworthiness. Loyalty.

What is the Four Quartets play about? ›

Compelling, moving and symphonic, Four Quartets offers four interwoven meditations on the nature of time, faith, and the quest for spiritual enlightenment.

What is the meaning of a group of four singers? ›

quartette. / (kwɔːˈtɛt) / noun. a group of four singers or instrumentalists or a piece of music composed for such a groupSee string quartet.

What is the meaning of 4 line poem? ›

In poetry, a quatrain is a verse with four lines. Quatrains are popular in poetry because they are compatible with different rhyme schemes and rhythmic patterns.

Why is Four Quartets called Four Quartets? ›

Just as the first four sections of Eliot's "The Waste Land" mirror the four ancient elements (air, earth, water, and fire), the four poems of "Four Quartets" match this same pattern.


1. T S Eliot reading his 'Four Quartets' (1947)
(Chris Goddard)
2. T. S. Eliot - East Coker
(Old Possum)
3. T.S. Eliot - BBC Arena Portrait 1/6
(Text und Bühne)
4. T. S. Eliot - The Waste Land (Jeremy Irons & Eileen Atkins)
5. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot |read by Jeremy Irons|
6. T. S. Eliot - Little Gidding
(Old Possum)
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