T.S. Eliot died over 50 years ago now. His legacy remains profound and his poetry moves me deeply.
In August 2016 I had the privilege of visiting his final resting place, East Coker.
I listen to the peerless Little Gidding at least once a quarter, sometimes more often, and almost every line entrances, as if peering through a veil at something once known, but half-forgotten because not looked-for.
Recently, The Waste Land and Modernity tried to figure out whether someone who captured modern life so well could really dislike it so much.When he stared out at a world of radio and cinema, of radical art and universal suffrage, did Eliot really see only a barren, featureless plain? (See, for example: The Waste Land describes a sickness, without a prescription.) Perhaps listening to Eliot himself read The Waste Land can give us clues?