T. S. Eliot nasceu há 137 anos...

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Ele nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

Preludes

  
  

I

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o’clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed’s edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies

That fade behind a city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o’clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain certainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
   

 
  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot morreu há sessenta anos...

 

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e a sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

 

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

 

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

  

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
   

  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot nasceu há 136 anos...

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Ele nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

Preludes

  
  

I

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o’clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed’s edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies

That fade behind a city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o’clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain certainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
   

 
  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot morreu há 59 anos

 

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e a sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

 

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

 

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

  

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
   

  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot nasceu há 135 anos

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Ele nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
  
  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot morreu há 58 anos

     

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e a sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

 

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

 

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

  

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
  
  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot nasceu há 134 anos

      

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
  
  
T. S. Eliot

 

T. S. Eliot morreu há 57 anos

     

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e a sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

  

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
  
  
T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot nasceu há 133 anos

      

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

   

A Terra Desolada
   
   
Abril é o mais cruel dos meses, germina
Lilases da terra morta, mistura
Memória e desejo, aviva
Agônicas raízes com a chuva da primavera.
O inverno nos agasalhava, envolvendo
A terra em neve deslembrada, nutrindo
Com secos tubérculos o que ainda restava de vida.
O verão; nos surpreendeu, caindo do Starnbergersee
Com um aguaceiro. Paramos junto aos pórticos
E ao sol caminhamos pelas aleias de Hofgarten,
Tomamos café, e por uma hora conversamos.
Big gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
Quando éramos crianças, na casa do arquiduque,
Meu primo, ele convidou-me a passear de trenó.
E eu tive medo. Disse-me ele, Maria,
Maria, agarra-te firme. E encosta abaixo deslizamos.
Nas montanhas, lá, onde livre te sentes.
Leio muito à noite, e viajo para o sul durante o inverno.
Que raízes são essas que se arraigam, que ramos se esgalham
Nessa imundície pedregosa? Filho do homem,
Não podes dizer, ou sequer estimas, porque apenas conheces
Um feixe de imagens fraturadas, batidas pelo sol,
E as árvores mortas já não mais te abrigam,
nem te consola o canto dos grilos,
E nenhum rumor de água a latejar na pedra seca. Apenas
Uma sombra medra sob esta rocha escarlate.
(Chega-te à sombra desta rocha escarlate),
E vou mostrar-te algo distinto
    
De tua sombra a caminhar atrás de ti quando amanhece
Ou de tua sombra vespertina ao teu encontro se elevando;
Vou revelar-te o que é o medo num punhado de pó.
   

     
Trecho de “Terra Desolada”, de T. S. Eliot - tradução de Ivan Junqueira

O escritor T. S. Eliot morreu há 56 anos

     

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

  

in Wikipédia

 

A Game of Chess
  
  
THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
 
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
 
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
 
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
  
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
  
  
T. S. Eliot

 

T. S. Eliot nasceu há 132 anos

 

      

Thomas Stearns Eliot (St. Louis, 26 de setembro de 1888 - Londres, 4 de janeiro de 1965) foi um poeta modernista, dramaturgo e crítico literário inglês, nascido nos Estados Unidos, que recebeu o Prémio Nobel de Literatura em 1948.

Eliot nasceu em St. Louis, Missouri, nos Estados Unidos, mudou-se para a Inglaterra em 1914 (então com 25 anos), tornando-se cidadão britânico em 1927, com 39 anos de idade. Sobre a sua nacionalidade e sua influência na sua obra, T. S. Eliot disse:

  

“

My poetry wouldn’t be what it is if I’d been born in England, and it wouldn’t be what it is if I’d stayed in America. It’s a combination of things. But in its sources, in its emotional springs, it comes from America.

”

  

Faleceu a 4 de janeiro de 1965. Segundo a sua vontade, foi cremado e as suas cinzas encontram-se na igreja Saint Michael, na vila de East Cocker, Somerset, na Inglaterra.

    

in Wikipédia

 

   

A Terra Desolada
   
   
Abril é o mais cruel dos meses, germina
Lilases da terra morta, mistura
Memória e desejo, aviva
Agônicas raízes com a chuva da primavera.
O inverno nos agasalhava, envolvendo
A terra em neve deslembrada, nutrindo
Com secos tubérculos o que ainda restava de vida.
O verão; nos surpreendeu, caindo do Starnbergersee
Com um aguaceiro. Paramos junto aos pórticos
E ao sol caminhamos pelas aleias de Hofgarten,
Tomamos café, e por uma hora conversamos.
Big gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
Quando éramos crianças, na casa do arquiduque,
Meu primo, ele convidou-me a passear de trenó.
E eu tive medo. Disse-me ele, Maria,
Maria, agarra-te firme. E encosta abaixo deslizamos.
Nas montanhas, lá, onde livre te sentes.
Leio muito à noite, e viajo para o sul durante o inverno.
Que raízes são essas que se arraigam, que ramos se esgalham
Nessa imundície pedregosa? Filho do homem,
Não podes dizer, ou sequer estimas, porque apenas conheces
Um feixe de imagens fraturadas, batidas pelo sol,
E as árvores mortas já não mais te abrigam,
nem te consola o canto dos grilos,
E nenhum rumor de água a latejar na pedra seca. Apenas
Uma sombra medra sob esta rocha escarlate.
(Chega-te à sombra desta rocha escarlate),
E vou mostrar-te algo distinto
    
De tua sombra a caminhar atrás de ti quando amanhece
Ou de tua sombra vespertina ao teu encontro se elevando;
Vou revelar-te o que é o medo num punhado de pó.
   

     
Trecho de “Terra Desolada”, de T. S. Eliot - tradução de Ivan Junqueira