The Sub-Conscious Reading

But you could not stop and go back. There was a force, a momentum that took control and pushed you through the pages. Somewhere between activity and being swept downstream. Like playing solitaire on the Vegas clock, the cards keep turning. You couldn't stop if you wanted to. An automated carwash conveyor, but better. A solid hostess leading you through the room full of faces just as the drink settles in. Where are we? Page twenty-two of twenty-three. Eliot's poems can be appreciated for the overtaking rhythms, timing and color. They are like music and the great cartoons.

The Conscious Reading

This is the conscious response to the content (wit, humor, plot). This is like listening to the lyrics of songs. We all do it, and there's nothing much to say about it. With Eliot, there is plenty for this category as well.

The Beyond Conscious

This is the analysis and over-analysis of the text in relation to external connections. The "over" part is applicable the minute you a) read something you wouldn't have otherwise read and wish you hadn't or b) post messages on a chatroom dedicated to said topic c) are told by someone else that you sound pompous.

The raw material to support these claims.

To not over-analyze:

(prufrock)

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit.

A rhythm thing

This is the stop, repeat, like jazz thing.

(the wasteland)

'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now?

'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

From the daring and discordant, between the desire and the spasm, like the Gross Fugue from Op. 130.

The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.

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Lines Extracted for Showcasing

(prufrock)

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

(preludes)

The winter's evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.

And newspapers from vacant lots;

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

(la figlia)

Fling them to the ground and turn [fling]

Get it here, thing.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather

(Rhapsody on a Windy Night)

As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door

A broken spring in a factory yard,
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Or rats' feet over broken glass

(the Wasteland)

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The lady of situations.

Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

Who among us (men) has not been here?

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which are still unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at one;
Exploring hands rencounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.

And who among us (women) has not been here?

'Trams and dusty trees
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

'My feet are Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start."
I made no comment. What should I resent?'

Attention to detail. Life is in the details. Some poets are not afraid.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Eliot comments on urban traffic

At four and five and six o'clock,

How I like to travel

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

Reflect on this biotch!

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

The Ancient Art of Complaining

If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only [substitution]

I wouldn't mind (the, them) ________ if (it, they) just didn't ________

Great segment about the “under my thumb” in relationships.

Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands