E 316K - Eliot, Orwell, Woolf

E 316K - Eliot, Orwell, Woolf - T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)...

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T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) Born in St. Louis, Missouri and educated at Harvard, the Sorbonne, and Merton College, Oxford In June 1915 married Vivien Haigh-Wood (from whom he separated in 1932) and published “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” Founded “The Criterion” in 1922; its first issue featured The Waste Land and established Eliot as the poetic representative of post-war disillusionment Became a British subject in 1927 and a member of the Anglican Church; his Four Quartets (1935-42) charts his literary journey toward tradition, hierarchy, and community in religion and politics Turned to poetic drama in the 1930s, producing a series of plays satirizing the drabness of modern life; his book of children’s verse, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (1939) was adapted to the musical stage in Cats (1981) In addition to poetry and drama, Eliot produced a vast body of literary and social criticism, including The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (1920); The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism (1933); Elizabethan Essays (1934); The Idea of a Christian Society (1940); Notes Towards the Definition of Culture (1948); Poetry and Drama (1951); and On Poetry and Poets (1957) Awarded the Noble Prize for Literature in 1948
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Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) 1 They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest Uncoffined--just as found: His landmark is a kopje-crest That breaks the veldt around; And foreign constellations west Each night above his mound. 2 Young Hodge the Drummer never knew-- Fresh from his Wessex home-- The meaning of the broad Karoo, The Bush, the dusty loam, And why uprose to nightly view Strange stars amid the gloam. 3 Yet portion of that unknown plain Will Hodge forever be; His homely Northern breast and brain Grow to some Southern tree, And strange-eyed constellations reign His stars eternally. “Drummer Hodge,” 1902
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The Waste Land (1922) What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. (I. The Burial of the Dead , lines 19-30)
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The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
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E 316K - Eliot, Orwell, Woolf - T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)...

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