Palimpsest

On Hearing A Recording by T. S. Eliot

I have recently listened to a recording of T. S. Eliot reciting his eponymous piece “The Wasteland”.

I love his poetry, perhaps because of his style: short staccato phrases, pieces that neatly fit into a nutshell, interpreted succinctly, that I have tried to mimic. In person the man sounds like an insufferable bore, intoning the lines with all the emotion of a fire hydrant.

But I should be content to sound like him, if I could approach his genius. Nor soar to his heights. If reciting like him could give me his perception, I would be content.

But someone should have taken him aside and said

“Hey, T. S. Making this recording is a really bad idea”.

Let your legacy be “Love Song” or “Wasteland”.

I love his poetry, perhaps because of his style: short staccato phrases, pieces that neatly fit into a nutshell, interpreted succinctly, that I have tried to mimic. In person the man sounds like an insufferable bore. Intoning the lines with all the emotion of a fire hydrant.

But I should be content to sound like him, tho’ I cannot plumb to his depth nor soar to his heights. If reciting like him could give me his perception, his wit, his talent, I would be content, fire hydrant tho’ I be.

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